.<x  <v  THE  jf  Jr>.j 

LOOKING  GLASS 


6, .- 


THE  LOOKING  GLASS 


UJNCK.  0E  CALIF.  Ll&KARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


BY  THE  SIAME  AUTHOR 

JUST  HUMAN  $1.00  net 

FOOTNOTES  TO  LIFE    $1.00  net 

WAR  AND  WORLD  GOVERN- 
MENT $1.00  net 

ADVENTURES   IN   COMMON 
SENSE  $1.00  net 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


THE 

LOOKING  GLASS 

BY  DR.  FRANK  CRANE 

AUTHOR  OF  "Jusx  HUMAN," 
"FOOTNOTES  TO  LIFE," 
"ADVENTURES  IN  COMMON  SENSE," 
"WAR  AND  WORLD  GOVERNMENT,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:    JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE, THE  BODLEY  HEAD:  MCMXVH 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
•    New  York.  U.S.  A. 


TO 

DAPHNE 


2126245 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LOOKING  GLASS 13 

THE  SECRECY  OF  GOODNESS 16 

THE  CROOKED  STREET 18 

Two  WOMEN  SEWING 20 

THE  TEAKETTLE 22 

THE  KING'S  WAGE 24 

THE  PEOPLE 27 

THE  ART  OF  BEING  CHEERFUL 30 

THE  HIGHER  PROBABILITIES 32 

THE  CIRCLE  OF  JOY  FOREVER 34 

FECUND  MINDS         36 

KEEPING  YOUNG 39 

AMUSEMENTS 42 

THE  ARISTOCRAT  OF  PLEASURE 44 

THE  FEAR  OF  DECIDING 46 

ON  BEING  ENTERTAINED 49 

THE  BOHEMIAN 52 

THE  Six  CLOCK  STROKES 54 

WAYS  OF  GETTING  MONEY 57 

WATER 60 

THE  ESSENTIALS 63 

THE  NEW  TEACHER 65 

MOULTING 68 

IN  AN  OLD  BOOK 71 

REST 73 

WALLS  AND  ARMOR 75 

THE  ARGUMENT  OF  TOMBS 78 

7 


PAGE 

THE  PHILISTINE 80 

THE  THEATRE  AND  MORALS 83 

COMPANIONSHIP  WITH  SUPERIORS 85 

MANKIND  LOVES  FIGHTING 88 

SQUARE  PEGS,  ROUND  HOLES,  AND  MORALITY    .     .  90 

BUNK 93 

THE  WEAKNESS  OF  CURSING 95 

THE  BAFFLING  SOUL 97 

THE  IMMORALITY  OF  FEAR 99 

DANGEROUS  SHORT  CUT  IN  GOVERNMENT     ...  102 

THE  BEST  ROOM 106 

How  TO  BUILD  A  HOUSE no 

THE  CREED  OF  POWER in 

A  CONSUMER'S  VIEWS  ON  SALESMANSHIP       .     .     .  114 

THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  UNBORN  SOULS 117 

AMBASSADORS 119 

THE  JONESNESS  OF  JONES 122 

THE  DEATH  OF  WONDER  Is  THE  END  OF  LIFE    .     .  125 

THUNDER  OF  THE  MODERN  CONSCIENCE  ....  128 

THE  DEVIL 131 

INFINITY 134 

BOY  WANTED 137 

THE  GHOST  SHIP 139 

HONOR 142 

DEMOCRACY  AND  ORGANIZATION 145 

GLORY 148 

A  MAN'S  COUNTRY 151 

NOSERINGS 154 

THE  TAX  OF  IGNORANCE 157 

Now 160 

RED 163 

WHAT  TO  Do 166 

THE  COMMONPLACE 169 

8 


PAGE 

MAKING  THE  IDEAL  REAL 172 

THE  OLDER  SISTER 175 

MARRIAGE  AND  PERSONALITY 178 

THE  FOUR  GREAT  DEMOCRACIES 181 

THE  VISION  OF  HANDS 185 

RELIGION 188 

THE  SEX  AND  ALCOHOL  BOMB-THROWERS     .     .     .  191 

WHY  MEN  WORK 194 

THE  TREE  or  TREES 196 

WHEN  THE  SLEEPER  WAKES 199 

HUMAN  NATURE 202 

THE  AMERICAN  SOUL 205 

SPORT  VERSUS  PLAY 208 

IF  I  HAD  A  MILLION  DOLLARS 211 

INVINCIBLE  IGNORANCE 213 

THE  CABARET 215 

THE  SECOND-RATER 218 

Ho!  FOR  THE  BAY  OF  SHIMA! 221 

THE  GENIUS  FOR  AFFECTION 224 

POLITICS  IN  THE  SCHOOL-ROOM 226 

THE  HIRED  GIRL 229 

THE  CURSER 232 

THE  BUTTON-BEFORE  GOWN  AND  THE  BYRONIC  COL- 
LAR   ..- 235 

FLUNKED 238 

PRACTICE  WHAT  You  PREACH 240 

NUDE  OR  UNDRESSED? 243 

SWEET  ALICE 246 

DIVORCE 249 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 252 

THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  GROWING  OLD 255 


THE  LOOKING  GLASS 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 

THE  other  day  I  stood  in  a  hotel  lobby  looking 
at  a  man.  I  had  only  a  side  view  of  his  face.  I 
glanced  into  a  mirror  in  front  of  him,  however, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  how  different  he  ap- 
peared. 

The  fact  is,  when  you  get  around  to  another 
side  of  any  person,  any  thing,  any  idea,  or  any 
emotion,  it  is  not  the  same. 

The  truth  is  never  all  in  one  mind.  Each  is 
limited  by  his  standpoint.  Only  an  omnipotent 
eye,  which  could  see  all  sides  of  anything  at  once, 
could  be  called  truthful. 

That  is  why  travel,  culture,  wide  reading,  and 
all  forms  of  experience  improve  the  judgment. 
The  youth  sees  more  clearly  perhaps  than  the  man, 
but  he  has  not  moved  about  so  much. 

The  items  of  religious  belief  are  often  much 
more  clean-cut  in  a  narrow,  provincial,  uneducated 
mind  than  in  the  mind  of  the  cultured  person ;  but 
it  does  not  follow  that  the  narrower  vision  is  the 
truer. 

As  the  world  is  deepening  in  wisdom,  accumu- 
lating the  facts  of  science,  tasting  all  forms  of 
literature  and  art,  developing  by  travel  the  cos- 

13 


mopolitan  spirit,  and  altogether  growing  out  of 
provincialism  into  universality,  it  is  losing  the 
sharpness  of  its  former  sectarianism.  That  does 
not  imply  that  it  is  losing  its  faith. 

One  reason  why  people  in  medieval  times  had 
such  clear,  distinct  beliefs  is  that  they  read  little 
and  traveled  less.  They  lived  their  lives  out  in 
the  town  where  they  were  born.  They  never  saw 
the  truth  except  from  one  angle,  and  naturally  sup- 
posed that  they  who  saw  it  from  another  angle 
were  heretics  and  accursed. 

Nowadays  all  nations  and  tribes  are  being 
woven  together  in  a  mighty  world-loom,  of  which 
the  railway  trains  and  ocean  liners  and  telegraph 
messages  are  the  shuttles. 

It  takes  the  whole  of  humanity  to  reflect  cor- 
rectly the  truth  of  heaven.  No  one  sect  nor  cult 
can  see  that  truth  as  it  is. 

I  should  like  to  live  a  hundred  years  from  now, 
to  see  what  the  world-view  of  destiny  and  morals 
will  be,  when  China,  India,  and  Japan  have  thor- 
oughly mixed  their  ideas  with  ours,  and  when  out 
of  the  welter  the  fittest  shall  survive. 

"In  the  Pitti  Palace  at  Florence,"  says  a  writer 
upon  art,  "there  is  a  statue,  standing  alone  in  its 
naked  beauty,  in  the  centre  of  a  many-sided  salon, 
paneled  with  mirrors,  in  which  it  is  reflected  at 
once  in  every  different  aspect,  and  in  each,  though 
differently,  yet  truly,  as  long  as  the  mirror  be  clear 
and  unwarped.  And  such  is  truth." 

Literature  is  such  a  many-sided  mirror.    Slowly 


by  the  million  flashes  of  truth  emerges  the  yet 
vague  conception  of  the  truth,  never  to  be  grasped 
by  one  mind,  comprehensible  only  by  the  vast  uni- 
versal mind  of  man. 

Not  a  man,  but  mankind,  can  see  God  as  He  is. 


THE  SECRECY  OF  GOODNESS 

THE  older  I  grow,  and  the  more  experience  is 
added  to  my  store,  studied  and  classified,  the  more 
I  approach  the  belief  that  it  is  the  law  of  goodness 
to  conceal  itself,  and  it  is  the  law  of  badness  to 
expose  itself. 

The  common  instincts  of  the  whole  world  are 
very  true;  and  the  world  has  always  been  a  bit 
suspicious  of  professed  goodness. 

I  am  far  from  believing  that  all  men  who  make 
a  show  of  righteousness,  and  call  themselves  good 
and  pure,  are  hypocrites;  but  it  seems  to  me  they 
would  do  better  to  say  nothing. 

For  one's  goodness  is  the  most  secret,  shy,  and 
sensitive  part  of  him.  It  is  like  the  little  girl  of 
six  who  will  not  come  into  the  room  and  be  in- 
troduced to  company,  but  runs  away  and  hides, 
in  a  panic  of  modesty. 

On  the  contrary  the  best  people  I  have  known 
seem  willing  to  publish  the  very  worst  of  them- 
selves. They  admit  faults  freely,  and  if  accused 
of  kindness  or  a  noble  deed  they  seem  abashed. 

This,  therefore,  is  the  inherent  law  of  goodness 
that  it  should  hide  itself  in  the  cellars  of  the  soul. 

The  twin-sister  of  goodness  is  modesty,  with- 
out whom  she  is  frightened. 

16 


When  Jesus  said  we  should  not  let  one  hand 
know  the  other  hand's  deed  of  mercy,  that  we 
should  pray  in  secret,  and  not  give  our  alms  on 
the  street  corner,  he  was  not  so  much  giving  a 
command  as  he  was  showing  how  thoroughly  he 
understood  the  nature  of  goodness  and  the  human 
heart. 

To  confess  our  sins  is  helpful;  our  goodness 
shrinks  from  confession. 

This  being  true,  it  comes  about  that  all  men  are 
much  better  than  they  seem  to  be. 

Down  in  the  bottom  of  every  heart  lurks  a  store 
of  heroism,  beauty,  and  nobility  which  if  we  could 
see  would  dazzle  us. 

That  is  why  love  has  no  reason.  One  loves 
simply  because,  being  dumbly  conscious  that  in 
himself  are  resources  of  goodness,  he  also  feels 
with  the  soul's  antennae  and  sees  with  the  soul's  eye 
that  the  beloved  is  also  secretly  good. 

The  real  history  of  the  human  race  goes  on  un- 
derneath appearances.  Souls  meet  in  the  dark 
and  recognize  each  other's  angelic  nature. 

Whoever  loathes  and  condemns  any  man  ut- 
terly is  only  accusing  himself  of  spiritual  blind- 
ness. 

God,  who  can  see,  loves  all. 


THE   CROOKED   STREET 

THE  city  is  a  home. 

It  is  not  only  a  place  to  make  money  in ;  it  is  a 
place  to  live  in. 

Hence,  why  not  have  it  homey,  cosy,  and  at- 
tractive, as  we  have  our  houses? 

We  are  already  coming  up  to  this.  We  have 
parks  and  fountains  and  statues.  But  we  are  still 
a  long  way  off. 

We  still  erect  office  buildings,  each  without  ref- 
erence to  its  neighbor,  with  no  architectural  har- 
mony, hit  and  miss,  individualism  run  mad.  We 
have  unsightly  slums.  We  have  hideous  rows  of 
apartment  buildings,  about  as  attractive  in  out- 
ward appearance  as  soldiers'  barracks,  and  inside 
hardly  as  comfortable.  Our  cities  are  scraggly, 
helter-skelter,  ugly  blotches  on  the  landscape. 

Where  humanity  coagulates  ought  to  be  the 
acme  of  art  and  beauty,  the  triumph  of  human  joy 
and  loveliness.  It  is  not.  It  is  the  triumph  of  bad 
taste,  lawless  competition,  blatant  advertising,  a 
place  to  go  when  you  have  to,  and  to  leave  when 
you  can. 

The  charm  of  some  of  the  old  towns  of  Europe 
consists  in  that  they  look  as  if  somebody  lived 
there  and  loved  them.  The  modern  parts  of  Eu- 

18 


ropean  capitals,  to  be  sure,  are  almost  as  hideous 
as  Chicago  or  Omaha,  but  the  back  streets  are 
attractive.  There  are  crooked,  narrow  ways  over 
the  river  in  Paris  that  look  human,  and  funny 
passages  and  nooks  in  ancient  London,  and  be- 
loved haunts  in  Florence,  while  the  lesser  towns 
of  Avignon  and  Nimes,  Subiaco,  Rothemburg, 
Regensburg,  and  the  like  really  have  the  appear- 
ance of  human  habitations. 

Why  not  get  back  to  this,  at  least  to  what  of 
good  there  is  in  it?  All  of  existing  New  York 
and  Boston  and  St.  Louis  will  have  to  be  taken 
down  a  hundred  years  from  now;  why  not  begin 
now  to  plan  the  city-to-come,  and  build  something 
beautiful  for  our  children's  children? 

We  lack  the  civic  feeling.  We  are  living  in  the 
fag-end  of  the  world-movement  of  competition. 
The  problem  of  the  twentieth  century  is  to  get 
together. 

We  cannot  go  back  to  that  medieval  solidarity 
of  feeling  that  made  the  feudal  towns  charming, 
for  that  feeling  arose  from  immobility,  lack  of 
transportation.  But  we  can  go  on  to  a  new  soli- 
darity and  the  unity  of  democracy. 

And  the  thing  most  to  keep  in  mind  is  that  the 
real  charm  of  a  city  is  not  its  proud  public  build- 
ings, but  the  beauty  of  its  common  houses  and  back 
streets. 

Above  all,  let  us  have  some  crooked  streets,  so 
that  we  may  imagine  we  are  at  home  and  not  in  a 
penal  colony. 

19 


TWO  WOMEN  SEWING 

FOR  genuine  soul-satisfying  communion  and  joy 
of  talk  I  know  nothing  that  seems  more  perfect 
than  that  time  when  one  woman  brings  her  sew- 
ing and  drops  in  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  an- 
other woman.  I  say  seems,  for  of  course  I  never 
tried  it.  I  am  versed  enough  in  womanly  arts  to 
be  able  to  cook  a  bit;  that  is,  I  can  fry  you  a  fair 
plateful  of  ham  and  eggs  and  make  real  coffee, 
but  sewing  is  beyond  me. 

There  must  be  only  two  women.  A  third  is  a 
restraint. 

When  the  two  get  settled  in  their  respective 
rocking-chairs,  and  the  sewing  materials  are 
brought  forth,  then  begins  the  most  ideal  bubbling 
of  human  speech. 

The  children  are  at  school,  the  men  folks  are  at 
business,  the  hired  girl  is  out,  no  one  is  by  to  say 
them  nay. 

They  talk.  It  is  real  talk.  It  is  not  talk  about 
anything,  it  is  just  talk,  in  its  freest  form.  It  is 
perfect  self-expression. 

Neither  wishes  especially  to  hear  what  the  other 
has  to  say;  each  wishes  to  say  her  own  say. 

They  think  of  so  many  things,  and  so  fast,  that 
20 


sometimes  they  are  both  talking  at  the  same  time, 
like  a  grand  opera  duet. 

They  say  whatever  pops  into  their  minds.  Their 
range  is  bounded  not  by  the  bounds  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

They  say  what  they  would  not  say  at  any  other 
time  and  place,  what  they  would  not  tell  their  hus- 
band or  children  or  mother. 

If  they  treat  of  scandal,  it  is  in  its  most  artistic, 
appetizing  form.  But  they  do  not  speak  of  whis- 
pered matters  nearly  as  much  as  they  are  supposed 
to,  and  when  they  do  it  is  with  so  purely  a  femi- 
nine touch  that  it  is  almost  antiseptic. 

They  discuss  their  bodies,  their  souls,  their 
babies,  their  husbands,  their  maids,  their  diseases, 
and  their  neighbors.  They  analyze  the  preacher, 
the  school  teacher,  the  grocer,  and  the  milkman. 

They  relate  how  Jennie  wears  out  her  stockings 
and  Mildred  cannot  eat  pastry,  the  felon  on  Bob- 
by's finger,  and  the  way  Mrs.  Humperdinck's  last 
gown  is  made.  They  also  give  judgment  on  poli- 
tics, literature,  art,  society,  and  religion. 

There  is  an  air  of  eternity  about  the  sitting. 
There  is  an  atmosphere  of  universality  and  elec- 
tricism  here  you  find  nowhere  else. 

It  is  the  most  natural  forthputting  of  person- 
ality you  can  discover  anywhere  in  Nature,  except 
it  be  the  twittering  of  two  birds. 

Men  are  not  capable  of  this  free  outpour  in 
conversation.  So  much  the  worse  for  them. 


21 


THE  TEAKETTLE 

OF  all  the  little  sounds  that  have  their  say  to 
the  human  soul  as  it  lingers  its  allotted  days  upon 
this  earth,  none  means  quite  so  much  of  rest  and 
peace,  cosiness  and  cheer,  as  the  singing  of  the  tea- 
kettle. 

May  the  Lord  help  all  those  unfortunate  chil- 
dren who  have  been  brought  up  in  hotels  or  else- 
where, where  they  have  never  had  the  privilege 
of  slipping  out  into  the  kitchen,  sitting  adream  in 
a  chair  and  hearing  the  kettle  burst  into  its  purring 
song. 

It  is  a  wayward,  wandering  melody  the  kettle 
sings,  mysterious  as  wind-music  in  trees,  as  fire- 
crackling  on  the  hearth,  as  bee-droning  and  brook- 
gurgling;  strange  and  tuneful  as  life  itself. 

It  is  the  most  optimistic  of  all  noises.  It  says 
to  the  heart  of  man  that  all  will  be  well,  father's 
coming  home,  mother's  about  to  get  supper,  and 
the  boys  and  girls  are  waiting,  hungry  and  happy. 
Who  could  believe  hard  and  cruel  things,  or  be 
the  least  bit  afraid  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works, 
with  that  sweet,  wavering,  rising  song  in  his  ears  ? 

It  means  home. 

All  the  joy,  the  intimacy,  the  protection,  the 
22 


fellowship,  the  love  and  laughter  of  home  is  in 
that  noise. 

When  I  am  about  to  die,  and  shiver  at  the  dread 
loneliness  of  the  unknown  before  me,  sing  me  no 
artful  hymns,  and  make  me  no  speeches  of  well- 
meant  platitudes,  but  put  on  the  kettle  and  let  my 
soul  go  home  to  breakfast  in  eternity  with  that 
homiest  of  noises  whispering  human  cheer  and 
hope. 


THE  KING'S  WAGE 

THERE  is  a  country  spot  in  Italy  by  the  shore 
of  the  Mediterranean  where  the  king  sometimes 
goes  in  summer  to  rest.  Here  he  wears  very  plain 
clothes  and  a  cap  like  any  other  man.  He  often 
walks  about  alone. 

One  day  he  overtook  little  Anna  Carducci  upon 
the  road.  She  was  carrying  the  baby  in  one  arm 
and  a  basket  of  oranges  in  the  other.  She  was 
ten  and  the  baby  was  two  years  old. 

"Are  you  not  tired,  little  one?"  asked  the  king. 

"Yes,  sir."  Anna  smiled  at  him,  as  she  smiled 
at  everybody.  She  did  not  know  who  he  was,  but 
she  was  not  afraid  of  him.  She  was  not  afraid 
at  all,  so  she  was  always  cheerful.  "I  have  come 
from  Mother  Aureli's,  and  that  is  a  long  way." 

"Why  do  you  not  set  the  child  down  and  let 
him  walk?" 

"He  would  get  all  dirty.  He  loves  to  crawl 
better  than  to  walk.  I  must  keep  him  clean." 

"Do  you  take  care  of  him?" 

"Yes,  sir.  My  mother  works,  and  my  father 
works.  I  look  after  the  baby  and  the  house." 

"May  I  not  carry  him  awhile?" 

Anna  looked  doubtful.  "Are  you  sure  you  know 
how  to  hold  a  baby?" 

24 


"Oh,  yes  I"  The  king  laughed.  "I  have  babies 
of  my  own." 

He  took  the  child,  who  was  in  no  way  dis- 
pleased with  his  new  perch,  which  was  higher. 
The  baby  was  remarkably  pretty,  a  laughing, 
happy  creature,  and  pointed  and  prattled  and 
smiled  at  everything. 

By  and  by  they  reached  Anna's  home.  The 
king  set  the  baby  down. 

It  was  a  most  rude  and  bare  house,  for  Anna's 
folks  were  poor. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  Anna.  "And 
I  will  give  you  an  orange  for  your  trouble." 

She  selected  a  large  one.    The  king  took  it. 

Just  then  two  of  his  aides  came  walking  swiftly 
up.  The  king  motioned  them  to  silence. 

"These  are  two  of  my  friends,  Anna.  Gentle- 
men, this  is  Anna  Carducci,  who  is  a  sweet  and 
faithful  little  mother." 

Anna  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  gentlemen  and 
made  her  best  bow. 

As  they  were  turning  away,  one  of  the  men 
handed  Anna  a  gold  piece. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said,  "but  my  father  says 
one  should  never  take  any  money  that  has  not  been 
earned." 

The  king  laughed.  "That  for  you,  Vincenzo !" 
he  cried.  "You  have  met  one  honest  woman  in 
the  world.  May  I  keep  my  orange  then,  Anna?" 

"Oh,  yes!  You  have  earned  that  by  carrying 
Tomaso,"  she  said. 

25 


"Then,"  said  the  king,  "may  God  and  all  the 
saints  bless  you,  little  woman!  And  I  would  I 
were  as  honest  a  soul  as  you.  To  God,  little 
mother!" 

"To  God,  signore  I"  said  Anna,  smiling. 

And  did  the  king  send  around  next  day  to  Anna 
a  whole  cartload  of  oranges  and  a  purse  of  gold? 
Not  at  all!  Victor  was  a  wise  man  and  human, 
and  would  not  spoil  the  imperial  beauty  of  the 
child's  deed. 


26 


THE  PEOPLE 

"THE  art  of  arts  is  the  art  of  government," 
runs  an  old  saying. 

For  several  thousand  years  this  art  has  been 
followed.  Progress  in  it  has  been  small. 

The  king  of  England  knows  not  much  more 
about  it  than  the  kings  of  Nineveh  knew. 

The  superiority  of  the  king  of  England  consists, 
not  in  his  better  knowledge  of  governing,  but  in 
the  fact  that  he  does  not  govern  the  people  at  all, 
but  lets  them  govern  themselves. 

The  truth  that  is  emerging,  after  centuries  of 
experiment,  is  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  "the 
art  of  governing." 

Not  the  wisest  man  in  the  world,  not  the  best, 
strongest  and  noblest  man,  is  competent  to  govern 
the  people.  The  responsibility  of  rule  can  justly 
rest  only  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  people  them- 
selves. No  man  was  ever  created  who  is  fit  to  be 
trusted  with  that  burden. 

The  governing  class  idea  is  also  fiction.  Think- 
ers of  yesterday  were  fond  of  saying  that  the  best 
element  ought  to  govern  the  populace.  Thinkers 
of  to-day  have  discovered  that  this  will  not  work. 
No  class,  just  as  no  individual,  is  worthy  to  be 
entrusted  with  rule. 

27 


There  is  only  one  body  qualified  to  rule,  and 
that  is  the  entire  body  politic. 

To  be  sure,  every  quack  and  pettifogger  prates 
of  his  love  for  "the  peepul."  Every  criminal 
trust  and  every  venal  politician  boasts  of  its  sub- 
serviency to  the  dear  people.  But  don't  let  that 
deceive  you.  They  wouldn't  all  lay  claim  to  a 
thing  that  is  not  good  in  itself. 

The  fact  is  that  the  people,  the  whole  people, 
are  wiser  than  any  one  man  or  class,  have  more 
common  sense,  more  courage,  more  prudence,  and 
better  morals. 

We  are  learning  that  "great  men"  are  not  the 
roots  of  popular  progress,  but  the  flower.  Shake- 
speare was  the  crest  of  the  wave.  Luther  was  one 
who  would  have  been  unknown  without  the  many 
inspired  by  the  same  ideas. 

"No  single  man,"  is  the  much-quoted  saying  of 
Schiller,  "can  vie  with  the  individual  Athenian  for 
the  prize  of  manhood."  To  be  sure;  yet  though 
we  produce  no  finer  individuals  we  have  a  better 
society,  the  harmony  of  whose  existence  "does  not 
depend  upon  the  employment  of  slaves,  upon 
eunuchs,  and  the  seclusion  of  women." 

"The  world,"  said  Dr.  Martin  Luther,  "is  ruled 
by  God  through  a  few  heroes  and  pre-eminent  per- 
sons." Which  is  a  clear  statement  of  what  is  not 
true. 

For  the  world  is  ruled  by  itself.  The  progress 
of  government  is  toward  eliminating  the  leader, 
toward  emphasizing  the  masses. 

28 


We  are  natural  hero-worshippers,  because  we 
naturally  personify  forces,  in  order  to  understand 
them,  by  making  them  simpler. 

But  whoever  would  grasp  the  meaning  of  the 
twentieth  century  should  study  not  kings  and  noted 
men,  but  the  commons. 

The  people,  their  level  is  rising  everywhere,  to 
submerge  all  peaks. 


29 


THE  ART  OF  BEING   CHEERFUL 

To  Oliver  Edwards  rests  the  undying  fame  of 
having  once  got  the  better  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 
Kings  and  maharajahs  upon  their  thrones  have 
been  rebuked  by  prophets,  and  tsars  have  been 
made  to  hear  the  free  speech  of  nobodies,  and 
Their  Magnificences  have  let  the  rebuke  pass,  be- 
cause of  the  cleverness  or  the  fearlessness  of  the 
rebuker,  but  only  one  man  seems  to  have  out- 
Johnsoned  Johnson,  and  that  to  his  very  face. 

"You  are  a  philosopher,  Dr.  Johnson,"  said 
Edwards.  "I  have  tried,  too,  in  my  time  to  be  a 
philosopher;  but  I  don't  know  how;  cheerfulness 
was  always  breaking  in." 

By  virtue  of  that  candid  confession,  says  E.  V. 
Lucas,  he  takes  his  place  with  "the  shining  com- 
pany of  simple  souls,  the  hierarchy  of  the  ingenu- 


ous." 


For  there  is  one  thing  better  than  to  question 
the  world;  it  is  to  accept  the  world. 

The  most  fortunate  people  upon  the  globe  are 
they  who  have  in  themselves  a  perennial  fountain 
of  cheer. 

We  do  almost  everything  for  our  children.  We 
leave  them  lands  and  homes,  teach  them  Latin  and 

30 


trigonometry,  buy  them  clothes,  and  angle  to  get 
them  profitably  married;  but  the  one  thing  we 
might  do  for  them  that  would  enrich  their  exist- 
ence is  to  teach  them  the  art  of  being  cheerful. 

And  if  so  be  that  it  is  not  an  art,  but  that  it  is 
bred  in  the  bone,  then  the  attention  of  eugenists 
should  be  drawn  to  the  science  of  the  inbreeding 
of  cheerfulness. 

The  cheerful  soul  is  a  godsend  to  every  family, 
he  is  good  for  a  meeting  and  a  first  choice  in 
affairs  of  friendship.  He  comes  upon  us  like  a 
water-carrier  who  enters  a  thirsty  Arab  village, 
like  rain  upon  the  shipwrecked  and  athirst  on  a 
raft  in  the  salt  sea,  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  after 
a  month  in  London. 

The  only  persons  he  offends  are  they  who  need 
to  be  cuffed  for  their  crankiness. 

I  say  no  word  against  the  making  of  monuments 
to  generals,  who  most  successfully  compassed  the 
slaughter  of  human  creatures,  and  of  stained  glass 
windows  to  saints  who  helped  sensitize  the  con- 
science of  us  all,  and  of  mural  tablets  to  the 
scientists  who  cracked  our  faith  and  to  the  the- 
ologians who  mended  it,  but  I  think  it  would  be 
better  if  in  every  ward  and  village  there  could  be 
set  up  memorials  of  the  few  citizens  who,  in  all 
the  wallow  of  business  and  reform,  just  remained 
cheerful,  and  scattered  away  the  microbes  of  mor- 
bidity from  a  small  part  of  this  mullygrubbing 
world. 


THE  HIGHER  PROBABILITIES 

IT  is  not  facts  that  save  men;  it  is  probabilities. 

The  greatest  truths,  in  the  realm  of  human 
destiny,  are  not  demonstrable.  You  cannot  prove 
them,  you  must  believe  them. 

The  highest  laws  of  life  are  inherently  dubi- 
table. 

You  cannot  be  certain  about  whether  your  be- 
loved loves  you  in  the  same  way  you  are  certain 
about  a  piece  of  cloth  being  a  yard  wide. 

You  can  never  know  that  it  pays  to  be  honest  in 
the  same  way  you  know  that  water  is  composed 
of  oxygen  and  hydrogen. 

You  cannot  know  that  virtue  is  best  for  you, 
that  purity  of  mind  will  bring  you  happiness  and 
power,  in  any  such  fashion  as  you  know  that  there 
are  a  dozen  apples  in  a  box,  where  you  may  count 
them  and  see  them. 

It  is  impossible  to  prove  there  is  a  God,  and 
that  He  is  good,  as  you  can  prove  that  the  square 
of  the  long  side  of  a  right  triangle  is  equal  to  the 
sum  of  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sides. 

The  evidence  that  the  soul  lives  on  after  the 
death  of  the  body  is  not  at  all  the  kind  of  evi- 
dence that  there  is  such  a  city  as  Paris. 

If  you  could  prove  these  things  of  the  spirit 

3* 


mathematically  they  would  be  of  no  use  to  you. 

Nothing  you  know  for  an  absolute  certainty 
has  power  to  do  you  good,  because  such  things 
impose  upon  your  mind  like  dead  matter.  Only 
those  truths  which  call  forth  your  faith  and  will- 
to-believe  are  potent  to  help  your  character. 

Moral  truth,  redemptive,  life-giving,  does  not 
strike  you  like  a  brick,  it  quickens  you  like  a  medi- 
cine. 

The  most  important  things  you  have  to  deal 
with  are  necessarily  subject  to  doubt.  For  it  has 
more  to  do  with  your  joy  or  sorrow,  whether  your 
beloved  loves  you  than  whether  boards  are  level 
or  stones  square ;  it  means  more  to  you  to  believe 
in  honesty,  virtue,  purity,  God,  and  the  life  here- 
after than  it  does  to  know  all  the  laws  of  steam 
and  steel. 

It's  the  uncertainties  of  life  that  count. 

To  know  how  to  weigh  probabilities  is  more 
vital  than  to  know  how  to  measure  accuracies. 

"Philosophical  truths,"  says  Barthelemy  Saint- 
Hilaire,  "have  value  only  as  they  are  disputable; 
they  do  not  affect  your  reason  like  the  axioms  of 
geometry;  their  very  power  to  save  or  ruin  a  man 
lies  in  the  fact  that  they  may  always  be  freely  ac- 
cepted or  freely  rejected." 

All  moral  truths  have  two  marks  of  force: 
First,  they  arouse  opposition,  which  proves  their 
force  of  resistance ;  second,  they  stimulate  thought, 
emotion,  and  action,  which  attests  their  fecundity. 

A  truth  nobody  denies  is  of  no  spiritual  use. 
33 


MEN  create  nothing.  They  discover.  That  is 
all. 

All  truth,  all  beauty,  all  righteousness,  are  in 
Nature.  Nature,  of  course,  includes  man. 

The  poet  is  but  a  seer.  What  he  sees  has  been 
there  all  the  while. 

The  poet  is  a  soul  with  an  eye. 

The  artist  discovers,  that  is,  he  makes  us  per- 
ceive what  was  to  us  veiled.  He  removes  covers. 

Animals  imitate.  So  do  we;  only  it  is  a  higher 
quality  of  imitation.  We  imitate,  assimilate,  re- 
produce. 

What  we  actually  do,  when  we  are  supposed  to 
invent  something,  is  to  go  to  the  stuffed  store-house 
of  Nature  and  find  out  something.  The  Ger- 
mans say  "erfindet,"  finds  out. 

"Quod  invenitur,  fuit,"  said  Tertullian.  "What 
is  invented,  was." 

In  the  realm  of  art  our  most  extravagant  fan- 
cies are  poor  beside  the  realities  of  Nature. 

The  great  sculptor,  Auguste  Rodin,  says : 

"Man  is  incapable  of  creating.  He  can  only 
approach  Nature  submissively,  lovingly.  Nothing 
will  take  the  place  of  persevering  study.  To  it 
alone  the  secret  of  life  delivers  itself.  Give  your 

34 


life  patiently,  passionately  to  understanding  life. 
What  profit,  if  you  come  indeed  to  understand! 
You  will  be  in  the  circle  of  joy  forever. 

"To  see,  to  understand — truly  to  see!  Would 
one  recoil  before  the  necessary  effort,  before  the 
indispensable  apprenticeship,  however  long  and 
laborious,  if  he  foresaw  the  happiness  of  under- 
standing?" 

We  are  placed  in  a  world  full  not  only  of  food 
for  our  bodies  but  of  nourishment  and  delectation 
for  our  minds. 

The  universe  is  rich  in  toothsome  laws,  radiant 
harmonies,  secrets  of  happiness  and  power,  treas- 
ures of  joy,  of  intoxicating  beauty. 

Go  to,  and  eat,  and  let  your  soul  delight  itself 
in  fatness! 

There  are  other  Venuses  of  Melos,  Monna 
Lisas,  and  Botticelli  Primaveras;  other  Iliads, 
Twenty-third  Psalms,  and  Odes  to  the  Skylark; 
other  Parsifals,  and  Ninth  Symphonies;  why  do 
we  not  find  them? 

Some  youth  with  divine  fire  mixed  in  his  clay, 
may  read  this. 

Listen  to  me,  O  youth!  Go  into  the  wilder- 
ness awhile  and  learn  the  message  of  mountains, 
of  stars,  and  desert  souls,  of  trees  and  shy  wild 
creatures;  and  put  your  ear  against  the  breasts  of 
cities  and  hear  their  heartbeats ;  drink  deep  of  the 
waters  of  democracy.  Then  sing  to  us,  paint 
for  us,  write  for  us,  and  our  hearts  shall  burn 
within  us. 

35 


FECUND  MINDS 

THERE  are  minds  also  which  beget. 

As  Abraham  had  a  body-progeny  that  was  as 
the  sands  of  the  sea  for  number,  so  Giotto,  Goethe, 
and  Bacon  were  patriarchs  of  the  mind  with  off- 
spring innumerable. 

In  the  swarm  of  human  animals  almost  all  are 
sexed;  in  the  hive  of  human  brains  most  are  sterile, 
only  here  and  there  is  one  procreative. 

During  my  life  I  have  met  about  four  people 
whose  minds  made  my  mind  fruitful.  To  know 
them  was  to  become  fecund  with  ideas. 

I  have  many,  too  many,  books  in  my  library;  I 
could  carry  in  my  arms  at  one  load  all  that  have 
been  true  husbands  to  my  soul. 

Once  when  the  Master  was  talking  to  the  peo- 
ple, one  said  to  him  that  his  mother  and  his  breth- 
ren were  without  desiring  to  speak  with  him ;  but 
he  answered  and  said  unto  him  that  told  him : 

"Who  is  my  mother?  And  who  are  my  breth- 
ren?" 

And  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  toward  his 
disciples,  and  said: 

"Behold  my  mother  and  my  brethren!" 
36 


So  there  are  consanguinities  of  the  spirit.  I 
have  psychic  fathers  and  mothers,  brothers  and 
sisters,  aunts,  uncles,  and  cousins,  ancestors  and 
posterity;  with  which  bodies  have  nothing  to  do. 

We  meet  these  higher  relatives  quite  by  chance, 
that  is  to  say,  by  the  designing  of  fate.  Our 
minds  meet  as  starlight  with  starlight. 

Most  wonderful  of  all  are  those  intellectual 
or  spiritual  Abrahams  who  become  founders  of 
new  families. 

Think  of  the  spiritual  children  of  Aristotle,  of 
Descartes,  of  Darwin,  of  Kant,  of  Rousseau! 

The  real  government  of  souls  is  a  theocracy,  a 
rule  by  special  King-men  God  raises  up. 
Our  democracies  are  but  preparations  for  this 
true  aristocracy;  they  clear  the  ground  of  arti- 
ficial Heroes  and  Magnificent  Ones  only  in  order 
that  the  true  Kings  and  Emperors  of  souls  may 
appear. 

If  we  glance  over  history  we  see  a  few  of  these 
towering  Fathers.  They  outrank  common  men 
almost  as  common  men  outrank  beasts.  Theirs 
are  the  minds  that  "glorify  nature,"  as  Goethe 
says  in  his  "Wander  Jahre,"  minds  without  which 
"the  outer  world  would  remain  cold  and  lifeless." 

Plato's  theory  of  ideas  fathers  the  thought  of 
the  twentieth  century;  almost  every  new  specula- 
tion or  system  is  in  a  measure  sprung  from  it. 

Democritus's  theory  of  atoms,  though  altered 
fundamentally,  is  still  the  hen-mother  of  most 
scientific  modern  chick-theories. 

37 


How  fecund  Moses,  Siddhartha,  Confucius, 
Mahomet,  Calvin,  Wesley!  Aside  from  whether 
they  be  right  or  wrong,  consider  their  immense 
power  of  spiritual  propagation! 


KEEPING  YOUNG 

IT  is  right  to  be  fearful  of  growing  old.  No- 
body should  grow  old.  We  should  all  be  happier 
if  we  would  remain  young. 

And  the  beauty  of  it  is  one  can  be  young  as  long 
as  he  pleases.  For  youth  is  not  a  matter  of  ruddy 
cheeks  and  nimble  legs,  but  of  the  spirit.  A  grand- 
mother, with  wrinkled  cheeks  and  white  hair  can 
be  as  young  as  a  girl  of  fifteen. 

The  things  that  age  the  spirit  can  be  fought  off 
by  the  will. 

Fear  is  ageing.  It  dries  the  blood,  unstrings 
the  nerves,  palsies  the  thought.  Courage  keeps 
the  soul  young. 

Convention  makes  one  old.  Constantly  looking 
about  us  to  see  what  others  are  doing,  and  gaug- 
ing our  feelings,  opinions,  and  habits  by  what 
"they  say,"  gradually  takes  the  sap  out  of  life. 
A  certain  amount  of  conformity  is  necessary,  but 
we  should  be  careful  to  keep  the  reserves  of  per- 
sonality free.  It  is  very  easy  to  become  smothered 
and  senile  under  the  pressure  of  fashion. 

Want  of  faith  speedily  kills  the  youthfulness 
in  us.  The  very  freshness  of  the  fountain  of 
youth  is  belief.  When  you  feel  you  have  no  more 

39 


confidence  in  yourself,  no  more  trust  in  others,  no 
more  credence  in  the  great  moral  forces  of  good  in 
the  world,  it  means  that  your  spiritual  teeth  are 
loose  and  dropping,  your  spiritual  hands  weak  and 
shaky,  and  your  spiritual  legs  rheumatic. 

To  retain  youth  you  must  cultivate  and  preserve 
your  power  to  enjoy  simple  things.  As  our  forms 
of  pleasure  become  complex  and  expensive  the  soul 
becomes  stiff  and  cramped.  To  love  simple  food 
and  drink,  simple  methods  of  play,  simple  speech, 
and  above  all  the  manifest  simplicities  of  nature, 
makes  red  blood. 

Resist  the  inroads  of  pessimism.  It  means  the 
twilight  of  the  soul,  and  the  empty  night. 

Whoever  has  ceased  to  wonder  has  become  old. 
It  may  be  said  of  him  as  of  Ephraim,  "Gray  hairs 
are  here  and  there  upon  him  and  he  knoweth  it 
not."  There  can  be  no  youthfulness  without  awe 
and  reverence.  The  knowing  person,  the  sophis- 
ticated person,  is  simply  the  prematurely  aged. 

It  is  mystery  and  the  unknown  that  constitute 
the  fountain  of  eternal  youth.  It  is  the  sky  and 
stars,  the  ocean  and  mountain,  and  the  un- 
plumbed  depths  of  thought  that  lie  around  our 
little  island  of  knowledge,  it  is  this  circumambient 
infinite  that  feeds  youth  into  the  soul. 

Says  Robert  S.  Service  in  his  "Prelude" : 

.  .  .  Yet  bring  I  in  my  work  an  eager  joy, 
A  lusty  love  of  life  and  all  things  human; 

Still  in  me  leaps  the  wonder  of  the  boy, 
A  pride  in  man,  a  deathless  faith  in  woman. 
40 


Still  red  blood  calls,  still  rings  the  valiant  fray ; 

Adventure  beacons  through  the  summer  gloaming : 
Oh,  long  and  long  and  long  will  be  the  day 

Ere  I  come  homing. 


AMUSEMENTS 

"ON  the  other  hand,"  writes  an  English  essayist 
(but  why  say  English  when  you  can  see  English- 
ness  sticking  out  all  over  the  quotation?),  "not  to 
be  accustomed  to  expensive  amusements  implies 
that  one  has  lived  among  people  of  narrow  means, 
so  that  most  of  those  who  have  social  ambition 
are  eager  to  seize  upon  every  opportunity  for  en- 
larging their  experience  of  expensive  amusements 
in  order  that  they  may  talk  about  them  afterward, 
and  so  affirm  their  position  as  members  of  the  up- 
per class." 

Ouch! 

We  smile  at  seeing  the  case  stated  so  baldly,  yet 
nine  out  of  ten  of  us  are  guilty.  The  strange 
fact  is  that  the  one  department  of  life  upon  which 
senseless  custom  gets  the  tightest  cinch  is  our 
amusements. 

When  the  average  man  goes  to  Europe  and 
does  the  grand  tour,  he  doesn't  loaf  around,  hunt 
for  what  he  likes  and  enjoy  what  he  pleases.  He 
hasn't  time.  Every  minute  is  employed  in  seeing 
what  he  expected  to  see  and  going  places  so  that 
he  may  "talk  about  it  afterward." 

When  he  goes  out  to  play,  his  games  are  set  for 
42 


him;  he  must  play  golf,  polo,  or  fox-hunting;  if 
he  stays  indoors  it  must  be  billiards  or  auction 
bridge. 

It  gives  one  such  a  soothing  sense  of  being 
really  among  the  exclusive  set,  just  to  mention 
those  games. 

I  do  not  share  in  the  condemnation  of  such 
sports  upon  the  grounds  that  they  are  childish  and 
that  grown  men  should  be  sawing  wood  or  clipping 
coupons.  The  trouble  is  they  are  not  childish. 
No  child  would  play  them. 

And  we  would  get  a  lot  more  fun  out  of  hide- 
and-seek,  pussy-wants-a-corner,  rounders,  leap- 
frog, and  prisoner's  base,  if  we  could  get  any  one 
our  size  to  play  with  us. 

As  I  remember,  these  were  games  that  used 
to  set  me  wild  with  pleasure,  until  I  became  too 
tall  and  fat  to  play  them. 

Of  all  the  abominations  upon  the  surface  of 
the  globe,  the  fashionable  summer-resort  hotel  is 
Ai.  To  think  of  importing  all  the  dressery  and 
snippery  of  the  winter's  games  of  precedence  out 
into  the  woods!  To  think  of  having  to  observe 
the  arbitrary  customs  of  society  when  you  want 
to  fish,  swim,  and  dig  your  toes  in  the  sand ! 


43 


THE  ARISTOCRAT  OF  PLEASURE 

IT  is  not  by  his  station  in  life,  by  his  birth,  or 
his  dress,  his  speech  or  his  manners,  that  you  can 
tell  whether  or  not  a  man  is  a  true  aristocrat;  it 
is  by  his  pleasures. 

The  only  real  aristocracy,  rather  the  only 
worthy  one,  is  the  aristocracy  of  pleasure. 

All  persons  may  be  ranged  in  the  scale  that 
runs  from  coarseness  to  fineness.  We  grade  from 
the  animal  to  the  soul. 

The  aristocrat  of  soul  is  the  being  that  has  the 
art  of  extracting  pleasure  from  all  that  happens 
to  him,  all  that  surrounds  him.  It  is  not  because 
he  has  adopted  some  optimistic  creed  and  says  "I 
will  be  happy."  It  is  because  by  nature  and  by 
culture  he  has  learned  how  to  make  the  universe 
minister  to  his  life  and  not  sap  it  or  destroy  it. 

He  eats  discriminatingly,  every  meal  is  also  a 
feeding  of  his  soul;  so  of  all  the  bodily  sensations, 
he  knows  how  to  indulge  them  with  just  that  touch 
of  niceness  and  self-control  that  redeem  them 
from  grossness  and  finds  their  flavor. 

He  meets  no  human  being  that  does  not  add 
to  his  interest  in  life ;  he  knows  how  to  extract  the 
helpfulness  from  all  enforced  intimacies,  as  of 

44 


wife,  child,  and  all  relatives,  and  to  avoid  the  de- 
pression or  friction  these  give  to  commoner 
mortals. 

He  has  that  rare  receptivity  that  misses  no  mes- 
sage of  nature,  a  wild  rose,  a  rainy  day,  clouds, 
animals,  deserts,  and  cities.  Nothing  strikes  him 
brutally  in  the  inevitable;  even  tragedy,  sickness, 
and  death  somehow  seem  to  unfold  to  him  a  divine 
aroma  which  we  cannot  detect. 

There  are  such  souls  on  earth,  always  have 
been,  and  always  will  be,  the  latchet  of  whose 
shoes  we  are  not  worthy  to  unloose. 


THE  FEAR  OF  DECIDING 

A  YOUNG  man  wrote  me  the  other  day  and  after 
describing  his  circumstances  asked  me  to  tell  him 
whether  to  go  on  in  his  present  position  or  to  ac- 
cept a  certain  offer  of  another. 

A  woman  called  upon  me,  a  tired,  defeated 
looking  woman,  with  her  story  of  a  husband  who 
regularly  got  drunk  and  beat  her,  and  of  a  son 
who  was  under  the  spell  of  a  wicked  siren.  Would 
I  please  explain  to  her  just  what  to  do? 

A  man  sixty-five  years  old  wrote  me  stating  he 
had  been  a  bookkeeper  all  his  life  and  now  was 
breaking  down.  He  needed  a  rest.  Should  he 
spend  his  little  savings  on  a  vacation,  with  the 
probability  of  losing  his  job,  or  should  he  continue 
at  his  desk? 

A  woman  wrote  me  of  her  domestic  problem 
and  wanted  to  know  if  I  would  advise  her  to  leave 
her  husband. 

I  mention  these  things  for  a  purpose.  It  is  to 
show  how  prone  we  are  to  find  some  one  upon 
whom  we  may  shift  the  responsibility  in  life's 
crises. 

We  might  go  so  far  as  to  lay  it  down  that  re- 
46 


sponsibility  is  the  thing  people  dread  most  of  all. 
Yet  it  is  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  develops 
us,  gives  us  manhood  or  womanhood  fibre. 

Because  people  shun  responsibility  they  are 
willing  to  slump  into  routine  clerkship  and  safe 
jobs,  where  they  become  mere  machines.  It  is 
they  who  "get  out  and  hustle,"  unafraid,  who  grow 
up  with  souls  firm  and  sound. 

The  worst  calamity  that  can  befall  a  human  be- 
ing, perhaps,  is  a  life  position. 

The  virile  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  is  their  willingness  to  accept  responsibility. 
So  they  become  pioneers,  rulers,  conquerors. 

The  last  thing  a  weak  personality  wants  to  do 
is  to  decide. 

Even  in  family  and  business  affairs  we  reach 
out  for  some  one  to  lean  on. 

Worst  of  all  we  continually  seek  to  prevent  our 
children  from  acting  upon  their  own  judgment  and 
call  them  "good"  when  they  run  to  us  for  every 
decision. 

Children,  on  the  contrary,  should  be  trained  to 
form  their  own  opinions  and  to  take  the  conse- 
quences of  their  own  actions.  To  have  a  quick- 
acting,  dependable  judgment  is  better  than  a 
world  of  negative  moralities. 

Solve  your  own  problems!  Better  solve  them 
poorly  than  let  another  solve  them  well. 

Let  every  tub  stand  on  its  own  bottom !  Don't 
lean. 

Settle  your  own  love  affair  or  marriage  per- 
47 


plexity.  Fight  out  your  own  spiritual  battle  with 
doubt  and  superstition.  Carry  on  your  own  busi- 
ness in  your  own  way. 

Don't  be  afraid!  Fear  means  destruction.  It 
makes  the  hand  tremble  and  the  mind  waver. 
Think  over  your  situation.  Decide  on  what  you 
ought  to  do.  You  can  never  be  certain  it  is  right. 
You  must  weigh  probabilities,  which  is  all  that  the 
best  of  us  can  do. 

Then  go  ahead,  "trust  in  the  Lord,  and  keep 
your  powder  dry." 

Better  play  the  man  and  fail  than  be  a  mouse 
and  succeed. 


48 


ON  BEING  ENTERTAINED 

THAT  form  of  human  mosquito  I  most  dread  is 
the  person  who  tries  to  entertain  me. 

There  is  one  house  where  I  visit  with  the  ex- 
tremest  pleasure.  When  I  go  there  to  spend  a 
few  days  I  am  shown  my  room,  everything  for  my 
comfort  is  placed  at  my  disposal,  and  then  I  am 
let  alone.  When  I  descend  to  the  sitting  room 
the  hostess  does  not  feel  bound  to  leave  her  house- 
wifely duties,  hasten  to  me,  and  work  away  at 
keeping  the  conversation  going.  My  host  goes 
about  his  business  as  if  I  were  not  there.  They 
give  no  dinners  nor  receptions  in  my  honor.  They 
do  not  sit  up  nights  planning  for  me  how  I  shall 
spend  every  minute  of  my  time. 

I  can  rummage  in  the  library  for  hours.  I 
needn't  come  to  meals  unless  I  want  to.  I  am 
made  to  feel  that  no  special  dishes  have  been 
cooked  for  me,  and  that  if  I  don't  eat  them  I  am 
offending.  I  am  simply  adopted,  for  the  period 
of  my  stay,  into  that  family;  and  I  am  presented 
with  the  best  gift  that  or  any  other  family  has,  to 
wit:  the  privilege  of  doing  as  I  please. 

I  suppose  some  might  call  this  selfishness,  and 
49 


insist  that  it  would  be  better  for  my  hosts  and 
myself  to  exert  ourselves  to  render  each  other 
happy.  But  it  is  all  in  the  way  you  look  at 
it.  This  particular  family  and  I  both  find  a 
deal  more  solid  comfort  in  each  other's  freedom 
from  all  restraint  than  we  would  find  in  entertain- 
ing each  other  to  extinction.  So  we  are  comfort- 
ably selfish  instead  of  being  wretchedly  unselfish. 

When  I  go  to  a  house  where  there  are  small 
children,  and  find  the  living  room  into  which  I 
am  ushered,  littered  with  playthings,  the  mother 
can  pay  me  no  greater  compliment  than  to  refrain 
from  apology;  she  flatters  my  intelligence  when 
she  assumes  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I  under- 
stand. 

Hospitality  is  the  art  of  enjoying  the  company 
of  a  guest  without  annoying  him.  I  don't  want 
my  plate  heaped  up  with  things  for  which  I  have 
no  appetite,  nor  to  feel  I  am  hurting  my  host's 
feelings  when  I  don't  drink  his  wine  nor  eat  his 
favorite  pie;  nor  to  have  the  fear  that  if  I  should 
fail  to  keep  up  my  end  of  the  talk-rattle  I  should 
be  called  glum. 

As  for  me  as  host,  I  shall  lodge  my  guest  in 
the  best  room  in  the  house,  every  possible  con- 
venience shall  be  placed  at  his  disposal,  extra 
flowers  and  small  unobtrusive  attentions  shall 
make  him  feel  he  is  honored,  though  I  may  good- 
naturedly  argue  with  his  religious  and  political 
opinions  I  shall  not  resent  them,  I  shall  treat  him 
with  courtesy,  never  intrude  on  his  privacy,  and 

50 


above  all  things  I  shall  study  how  to  strike  the 
golden  mean,  that  is,  to  make  him  feel  we  are 
always  considering  his  happiness,  and  at  the  same 
time  are  not  boring  him  with  our  attentions. 


THE  BOHEMIAN 

THERE  is  a  good  and  a  bad  Bohemianism. 

The  bad  Bohemian  is  one  who  makes  the  term 
mean  laziness,  shiftlessness,  dirt,  sexual  disorder, 
disrespect  for  religion,  and  an  evasion  of  all  his 
duties  to  his  fellow  men. 

I  know  a  good  Bohemian.  He  is  a  literary 
worker,  and  his  work  is  the  love  of  his  life.  Some 
one  approached  him  the  other  day  to  induce  him 
to  go  into  an  enterprise  whereby  he  could  make 
$5,000  in  a  few  days.  He  declined. 

"It's  out  of  my  line,"  he  said,  "it  would  annoy 
me,  and  distract  me  from  what  I  really  care  about. 
Besides,  I  should  probably  bungle  the  matter.  I 
have  noticed  that  when  a  man  who  is  not  a  busi- 
ness man  goes  into  a  scheme  he  always  overlooks 
something." 

He  will  not  wear  a  dress  suit  nor  a  tall  hat.  He 
does  not  dress  slovenly,  but  he  is  not  what  you 
would  call  well  dressed.  His  nails  are  clean,  but 
his  shoes  often  need  brushing. 

He  will  not  go  to  a  reception  or  any  society 
affair,  although  he  is  often  asked.  He  says  he  has 
no  objection  to  such  things,  for  those  who  like 
them.  They  bore  him,  they  depress  him,  and  so 
he  stays  away. 

52 


He  likes  best  to  dine  at  a  certain  chop  house 
where  he  is  allowed  to  smoke  his  pipe  while  he 
sips  his  beer. 

He  is  one  of  the  most  deeply  religious  natures 
I  know;  that  is,  he  is  full  of  reverence,  noble  en- 
thusiasms, charity  of  judgment  and  human  sym- 
pathy. He  will  not  join  a  church,  however,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  it  means  respectability.  It 
means  exclusiveness,  in  his  opinion.  It  is  like  join- 
ing a  club,  and  clubs  he  abhors. 

The  class  he  shuns  are  those  who  are  somebody. 
He  prefers  the  nobodies,  as  being  more  human. 

He  makes  about  $1,200  a  year.  He  could 
make  $10,000,  but  he  says  $1,200  is  enough  to 
live  on.  After  he  makes  that  much  he  can  dream, 
enjoy  life,  and  invite  his  soul. 

He  is  not  held  in  very  high  esteem  by  the  best 
people.  The  mammas  with  marriageable  daugh- 
ters shudder  at  the  thought  of  him.  The  leading 
grocer,  the  judge,  the  parson,  and  the  manufac- 
turer regard  him  as  a  sort  of  tramp.  No  one 
would  be  surprised  to  hear  of  his  being  haled 
into  the  police  court ;  all  would  say  they  expected  it. 

Yet  when  I  talk  with  him  he  makes  me  ashamed, 
by  the  purity  of  his  heart,  the  vigor  and  incision 
of  his  mind,  the  gentleness  of  his  nature,  his  real 
courage,  his  genuine  humility. 

He  is  nothing  but  a  man.  Not  knowing  how 
to  classify  him  we  call  him  a  Bohemian. 


53 


THE   SIX   CLOCK  STROKES 

PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY'S  line  was : 

"We  should  count  time  by  heart  throbs." 

Clocks,  watches,  hourglasses,  sun  dials,  and 
New  Year's  days  are  artificial.  Since  the  clock 
struck  last,  or  since  last  year,  we  may  have  lived 
only  a  minute,  or  a  thousand  years.  Life  some- 
times crawls  like  a  snail ;  sometimes  it  whizzes  like 
a  bullet. 

In  life's  little  day  there  are  six  hours.  There 
are  six  crises  to  be  passed,  six  big  facts  to  which 
we  must  adjust  ourselves,  six  sphinx  questions  full 
of  fate  put  to  us,  whose  answers  mean  success  or 
failure.  They  are  as  follows : 

Sex,  religion,  education,  work,  philosophy,  old 
age. 

The  sex  instinct  is  one  of  the  strongest  in  the 
human  make-up.  Usually  the  stronger  and  more 
forceful  the  man  or  woman,  the  more  lively  is 
the  sex  feeling.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  important 
matter  for  a  human  being  to  settle. 

It  cannot  be  settled  by  default,  by  ignorance,  by 
running  away.  You  must  learn  the  physical  facts 
and  laws  about  yourself.  Then  you  must  face  the 
question  squarely,  make  up  your  mind,  establish 
your  policy,  and  stick  to  it. 

54 


The  religious  question  presents  itself  generally 
to  people  in  their  teens.  It  is  inseparably  con- 
nected with  adolescence.  It  means,  in  substance, 
your  relation  to  the  unknown  elements  of  life,  to 
destiny,  to  the  infinite,  and  to  death.  It  may  mean 
little  in  your  outward  life,  but  it  is  a  vital  issue  to 
your  inward  happiness  or  misery. 

The  question  of  education  is  a  serious  one. 
Not  so  much  your  technical  training  for  your  trade 
or  calling,  but  your  general  grounding  in  "book- 
learning,"  that  is,  in  the  accumulated  knowledge 
of  the  past. 

There  is  hardly  a  conceivable  excuse  for  a  boy 
or  girl  not  going  through  the  public  high  school. 
You  can  set  it  down  that  whoever  fails  to  do  this 
has  deducted  fifty  per  cent,  from  life's  efficiency. 
Better  swindle  a  man  out  of  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  than  cheat  a  boy  or  girl  out  of  his  or  her 
schooling. 

The  choice  of  one's  life-work  is  a  decision  that 
means  much.  Here  the  only  safe  rule  is  to  fol- 
low one's  natural,  inborn  inclinations. 

Every  human  being  by  and  by  settles  down 
into  a  certain  attitude  toward  the  universe.  We 
call  this  his  philosophy  of  life.  This  is  different 
from  religion,  though  doubtless  it  merges  into  it. 
Your  philosophy  of  life  determines  how  you  are 
going  to  take  failure,  success,  friends  and  ene- 
mies; whether  you  will  be  a  pessimist  or  an  opti- 
mist, an  opportunist  or  a  man  of  principle. 

These  first  five  turning  points  in  life  are  in 
55 


childhood.  It  is  the  youth  under  twenty-one  who 
has  most  to  do  with  the  master  issues  of  the  man's 
or  woman's  career. 

The  last  problem  to  be  solved  is  old  age.  How 
can  one  best  adjust  himself  to  this,  the  last  of 
life's  inevitables?  Is  it  to  be  sour,  crabbed  and 
querulous,  or  sweet  and  serene? 

These  six  problems  are  placed  before  every 
human  being  who  lives  out  the  normally  allotted 
time. 

These  are  the  real  clock-strokes  of  human  life. 
These  are  the  real  mile-stones  of  progress. 


WAYS  OF  GETTING  MONEY 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  getting  money;  first, 
getting  it  from  somebody  to  whom  you  have  given 
the  money's  worth;  second,  getting  it  without 
giving  the  money's  worth. 

The  first  way  is  honest. 

As  to  the  second,  some  varieties  are  recognized 
as  dishonest,  others  are  still  respectable. 

Among  the  ways  of  getting  something  for 
nothing  may  be  mentioned  the  following: 

Robbery.  This  is  the  most  ancient  and  honor- 
able art,  if  rightly  understood.  To  leap  out  from 
a  dark  corner,  knock  a  man  on  the  head,  and  go 
through  his  pockets,  is  crude;  it  is  a  practice  fol- 
lowed only  by  "low-brows,"  yeggmen,  gunmen, 
bandits,  and  the  like;  but  for  a  strong  nation  to 
browbeat  and  loot  a  weak  nation  is  supposed  to  be 
statesmanship. 

Finding.  As  when  you  pick  up  50  cents  in  the 
street,  or  somebody  accidentally  leaves  a  thousand- 
dollar  bill  in  your  overcoat  pocket.  This  mode  of 
acquiring  wealth  is  followed  mostly  by  those  who 
are  asleep. 

Gift.  This  includes  inheritance.  It  will  take 
another  hundred  years  of  democracy  for  the  world 

57 


to  get  to  the  point  where  this  way  of  getting  money 
will  be  seen  to  be  unjust  and  contrary  to  the  public 
welfare.  Though  wrong,  it  is  buttressed  by  four 
or  five  thousand  years  of  precedent. 

Stealing:  including  the  arts  of  burglar,  porch 
climber,  and  pickpocket.  If,  however,  you  object 
to  a  gentleman's  stealing  a  railroad  worth  $40,- 
000,000,  you  are  not  considered  moral,  but  an 
anarchist,  or  some  crazy  reformer  of  the  sort. 

Swindling;  including  three-card  monte,  the  shell 
game,  and  "get  rich  quick"  stocks. 

Gambling.  A  business  where  profits  depend  on 
luck  is  gambling.  It  makes  no  difference  whether 
you  play  with  stocks  and  bonds  or  jacks  and  sevens. 

Making  a  nuisance  of  yourself.  This  embraces 
the  organ  grinder,  the  poor  relation,  and  all  others 
to  whom  you  pay  money  on  condition  that  they 
go  away. 

Borrowing.  This  is  an  improvement  on  swin- 
dling because  you  intend  to  give  it  back.  It's  no 
trouble  to  keep  on  intending. 

The  only  way,  however,  of  getting  money  so 
as  to  have  it  bring  you  peace,  self-respect,  and  a 
clean  conscience,  is  to  earn  it.  This  you  can  do 
by  selling  a  dollar's  worth  of  apples  for  one  dol- 
lar, or  by  getting  a  dollar  in  wages  for  a  dollar's 
worth  of  work. 

When  you  get  money  by  giving  its  equivalent 
the  transaction  is  closed ;  you  and  the  universe  are 
quits. 

When  you  get  money  in  any  other  way  at  all  you 
58 


pay  for  it,  in  the  end,  many  times  more  than  it's 
worth;  sometimes  in  money,  sometimes  in  loss  of 
character ;  always  you  pay. 

When  the  spirit  of  democracy  shall  have  had  its 
perfect  work,  when  the  tainted  ethics  of  our  plun- 
dering ancestors  shall  have  been  cleaned  up,  when 
big  business  shall  have  learned  justice,  and  when 
all  ancient  frauds  shall  have  been  brought  to 
equity,  we  shall  establish  the  rule  universal  that 
money  shall  only  go  to  the  person  who  earns  it. 


59 


WATER 

THE  gospel  of  the  twentieth  century  is — water. 

You  have  read  many  a  learned  treatise,  doubt- 
less, including  Edmund  Demoulin's  "Anglo-Saxon 
Supremacy,  to  What  Is  It  Due?"  in  which  is 
sought  the  cause  of  the  English  race  overrunning 
the  earth.  The  real  cause  is  that  the  Englishman 
has  not  been  afraid  of  water.  He  sails  on  it,  tubs 
in  it,  drinks  it,  even  mixes  it  liberally  with  his 
Scotch  whiskey. 

From  the  hygienic  point  of  view,  there  is  no 
medicine  like  water.  About  nine-tenths  of  the 
ills  of  the  flesh  can  be  washed  out. 

People  go  to  Hot  Springs  in  Arkansas,  to  Man- 
itou  Springs  in  Colorado,  to  Carlsbad,  and  to 
Vichy  and  are  cured.  They  praise  the  salts  in  the 
waters.  The  truth  is  the  greatest  curative  prop- 
erty is  in  the  plain  water  that  holds  the  salts.  They 
might  be  healed  at  home  if  they  would  drink  there 
as  copiously  as  they  do  at  the  spa. 

The  human  body  is  mostly  water.  When  we 
die  the  liquids  are  dried  up. 

Drink  a  large  glass  of  water  as  soon  as  you 
arise  in  the  morning;  headache,  constipation  and 
physical  meanness  in  general  will  disappear. 

60 


Get  the  drink  habit.  Keep  a  bottle  of  water  by 
your  office  desk  and  go  to  it  often.  See  how  much 
water  you  can  hold.  This  is  nature's  remedy  for 
doldrums,  nerves,  premonitions  and  general  de- 
pression. 

Most  of  the  morbidities,  anarchies  and  crimes 
come  from  the  unwashed,  in  body  or  soul. 

The  root  difference  between  Russia  and  the 
United  States  consists  not  in  the  contrast  between 
their  respective  forms  of  government,  but  in  the 
contrast  in  habits  of  bathing. 

You  do  not  need  water  that  costs  money, 
charged  and  bottled  waters.  The  liquor  that  runs 
from  the  tap  in  your  kitchen,  that  flows  in  the 
mountain  brook,  that  lies  in  infinite  plenty  in  the 
lake,  that  comes  from  your  well  or  that  falls  down 
from  the  clouds,  is  good  enough,  provided  there 
be  no  pollution. 

Use  it.  Immerse  your  body  in  it.  Flush  your 
mouth  and  nose  with  it.  Swallow  it  to  your  ca- 
pacity. So  will  all  your  solid  flesh  rejoice,  your 
vital  organs  operate  smoothly,  your  mind  clear 
up,  your  soul  be  content. 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 

Will  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs 
And  silently  steal  away. 

No  wine  ripened  for  years  in  the  cellars  of 
Rheims,  no  concoction  produced  by  the  most  skil- 
ful of  chemists  in  the  laboratory,  no  juice  of  herbs 

61 


or  compound  of  mineral  can  compare  with  nature's 
own  beverage  and  medicine. 

It  has  in  its  crystal  body  the  simplicity  of  heaven, 
which  is  the  vigor  of  earth. 

It  is  the  liquid  smile  and  good  will  of  God. 

Without  it  the  bodies  of  men  would  die  in  tor- 
ment, and  all  the  beauty  would  pass  from  hill  and 
meadow,  and  this  globe  would  spring  through 
space  a  lifeless  hell  of  fire. 

In  hell  there  is  no  drop  of  water.  In  heaven 
the  central  charm  is  the  river  that  flows  through 
the  place. 


62 


THE  ESSENTIALS 

THE  most  marked  trait  that  distinguishes  the 
strong  from  the  weak  is  the  ability  to  see  what 
is  essential  and  what  is  non-essential. 

The  power  of  the  artist  is  first  of  all  the  power 
of  choice,  his  ability  to  select  from  the  bewilder- 
ing complexities  of  life  the  one  thing  that  is 
meaningful. 

The  modern  realistic  novel  lacks  this  power. 
All  facts  are  of  equal  importance.  The  slop  jar 
in  the  house  is  as  worthy  to  be  described  as  a 
woman's  soul.  Hence  the  dreary,  intolerable  com- 
monplaceness  and  the  feeling  of  ennui,  tedious- 
ness,  and  cynicism  of  the  average  novel  published 
by  Tauchnitz. 

The  cheap  reds  and  yellows  of  Mrs.  Holmes 
and  The  Duchess  of  a  former  day  were  better 
than  the  sick  drabness,  the  hopelessness  and  sad- 
ness of  many  modern  authors.  The  former  had 
at  least  some  selective  power. 

Every  great  passion  is  selective.  Love  chooses, 
emphasizes.  Religion  has  the  same  blessed  qual- 
ity of  disproportion. 

Homer,  Dante,  Victor  Hugo,  every  undying 
author,  has  been  like  the  Parthenon  at  Athens  or 

63 


the  Cathedral  at  Cologne,  not  like  the  world  is  or 
was,  but  like  the  world  wants  to  be. 

Men  are  inspired  by  soaring  ideals;  they  are 
deadened  by  the  pitiful  commonplace. 

The  master  merchant  differs  from  the  peddler 
chiefly  in  his  power  to  grasp  the  essentials. 

And  the  strong,  victorious  life  has  the  same  gift, 
simply  the  skill  to  choose  what  is  worth  while. 


THE   NEW  TEACHER 

AT  the  close  of  the  first  day  of  school  the  new 
teacher  said: 

"Now,  children,  listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  how 
I  have  marked  you,  and  give  you  my  reasons. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  will  explain  that  I  do  not 
mark  at  all  upon  how  well  you  get  your  lessons. 
You  may  really  know  much  more  about  the  sub- 
ject than  you  can  tell.  Besides,  you  are  not  here 
to  get  lessons  and  pass  examinations.  You  are 
here  to  grow.  So  I  mark  you  upon  how  you  show 
that  you  are  making  that  kind  of  effort  which 
forms  character. 

"Jimmy  Fitch  I  have  given  a  good  mark  be- 
cause he  was  the  only  one  in  the  room  who  asked 
what  the  word  'syndicate'  means.  None  of  the 
rest  of  you  knew.  Why  didn't  you  ask?  Asking 
questions  is  the  best  way  to  learn.  Slurring  over 
things  you  don't  understand  is  the  best  way  to 
become  an  ignoramus.  If  you  are  not  curious  it 
is  a  sign  you  are  stupid. 

"Ettta  Rogers  gets  a  good  mark  because  her 
finger  nails  are  clean.  You  will  find  it  quite  as 
important  when  you  grow  up  to  have  clean  finger 
nails  as  to  know  algebra. 

65 


"Emma  Montgomery  is  marked  'good'  because 
when  a  button  was  torn  from  her  dress  playing  at 
recess  she  took  a  needle  and  thread  from  her  desk 
and  sewed  it  on.  Also  she  carefully  picked  up  the 
orange  peel  she  had  dropped.  I  would  rather 
have  you  all  learn  to  clean  up  your  own  litter  and 
look  after  your  own  clothes  than  to  know  how  to 
spell  every  word  in  the  dictionary. 

"Willy  Waters  I  have  given  a  high  mark  be- 
cause when  I  asked  him  who  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
was  he  said,  'I  don't  know.'  He  probably  had  a 
vague  notion,  but  he  did  not  seek  to  deceive  me. 
I  want  you,  when  you  cannot  tell  a  thing  in  plain 
words,  not  to  hem  and  haw,  but  to  say  at  once, 
'I  don't  know.'  To  have  an  honest  mind  is  better 
than  having  a  stuffed  one. 

"Charles  Stuart  is  commended  because  he 
stands  up  straight,  sits  properly  in  his  seat,  and 
is  not  otherwise  slovenly  in  his  habits. 

"When  Jennie  Jones  failed  in  her  spelling  the 
word  'choler'  she  went  to  the  foot  of  the  class 
with  a  smile,  and  for  that  she  gets  a  high  mark. 
Some  others  of  you  pouted  and  sulked.  There  is 
nothing  you  can  be  that  is  so  commendable  as  to  be 
a  good  loser.  Anybody  can  succeed  pleasantly; 
it  takes  a  noble  nature  to  fail  good  naturedly. 

"During  the  day  six  promises  were  made  me 
by  six  pupils.  Only  one  of  them,  Henry  Clark, 
did  what  he  promised  to  do.  So  he  has  a  high 
rating.  When  you  become  men  and  women  and 
get  the  habit  of  promising  thoughtlessly  and  not 

66 


keeping  your  word  you  will  be  a  nuisance  to  all 
those  who  have  to  do  with  you.  Do  what  you  say 
you  will  do ;  that  is  better  than  being  able  to  bound 
Illinois  or  tell  the  capital  of  Kamtchatka. 

"Now  you  may  run  home,  children.  And  re- 
member that  in  this  school  there  are  no  rules  but 
two :  Do  what  you  think  is  right  and  be  cheerful. 
And  in  case  you  don't  know,  ask." 


MOULTING 

FROM  a  New  York  paper  the  other  day  I 
clipped  the  following: 

Rex,  giant  king  cobra  and  the  star  of  the  reptile  house 
at  the  Bronx  Zoo  since  he  was  brought  from  India  seven 
years  ago,  died  yesterday  because  of  the  failure  of  the  usual 
process  by  which  he  was  wont  to  shed  his  skin  about  twice 
every  year.  For  four  years  regularly  every  Sunday  after- 
noon there  would  appear  at  Rex's  cage  a  tall,  ascetic- 
appearing,  coppery  Hindoo,  his  thin-featured  face  framed 
in  long,  raven-black  hair.  He  would  doff  his  turban,  and, 
ignoring  the  crowds,  make  obeisances  and  mutter  prayers 
in  worship  of  the  cobra.  He  appeared  yesterday,  and  when 
he  saw  that  the  cage  was  empty  and  the  snake  was  dead 
he  knelt  at  the  empty  cage  and  murmured  a  prayer,  in- 
terspersing it  with  low,  wailing  cries. 

Get  that  picture  in  your  mind's  eye — the  cobra 
dead  because  he  could  not  moult  and  the  heathen 
man  heartbroken  before  the  thing  he  worshipped, 
and  you  will  see  the  symbol  of  a  great  truth. 

For  moulting  is  necessary  not  only  to  feathered 
fowl  and  deer  and  snakes,  but  also  to  men's  minds. 

It  is  by  shedding  the  dead  skin  of  outgrown 
ideas  that  we  live;  and  if  we  cannot  shed  we 

68 


die,  or  dry  up,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing. 

Any  man  who  has  grown  intellectually  and 
spiritually  can  look  back  and  see  all  along  his 
upward  way  the  cast-off  skins  of  convictions,  views 
and  beliefs  which  once  fitted  him,  but,  as  he  grew, 
became  menaces  to  his  life. 

It  is  a  common  notion  that  when  one  changes 
his  conceptions  of  the  universe,  destiny  and  the 
meaning  of  life  and  death — that  is,  when  he  alters 
the  form  of  his  "faith" — it  is  due  to  a  laxity  of 
morals.  A  "free-thinker"  is  supposed  to  connote 
that  one  is  loose  in  morality.  That  is  because  that 
by  "morals"  we  usually  mean  conformity  to 
custom. 

If  by  morals,  however,  we  mean  one's  loyalty 
to  his  convictions,  faithfulness  to  the  truth  as  he 
sees  it,  and  a  sincere  following  of  the  light  that 
appears  to  him,  then  one's  faith  ought  to  be  a 
constantly  growing,  and  hence  changing,  thing. 

The  human  race  moults.  That  is  the  way  it 
progresses.  We  could  not  go  back  now  to  the 
ideas  of  government  that  prevailed  in  the  year 
1000,  nor  to  the  ideas  of  theology  that  were  uni- 
versally accepted  then ;  nor  to  the  ideas  of  business, 
of  education,  or  of  play  they  had  in  that  era. 

We  have  moulted  the  views  of  human  relation- 
ship held  by  the  Puritans;  right  for  their  time, 
they  would  not  be  right  for  ours. 

We  have  moulted  monarchy,  absolutism,  al- 
chemy, astrology,  necromancy,  witchcraft,  and  a 
hundred  other  dead  skins. 

69 


We  are  moulting  the  idea  of  competition  and 
trying  to  form  a  new  skin  of  co-operation. 

We  are  constantly  shedding  all  notions,  whether 
in  the  schoolroom,  the  market  place,  the  legisla- 
ture, or  the  church. 

If  we  get  rid  of  our  old  skin  before  we  have 
grown  mature  enough  to  do  so  we  are  in  peril. 
If  we  do  not  get  rid  of  it  when  we  have  outworn 
it  we  are  in  peril  also. 

The  secret  of  strength  and  vitality,  either  in 
individual  or  in  social  life,  is  to  moult  properly. 

How  many  people,  bewailing  "the  dangerous 
changes"  of  men's  minds,  remind  us  of  the  poor 
Hindoo  I 


70 


IN  AN  OLD  BOOK 

IN  one  of  the  old  book  stalls  that  line  the  quays 
of  the  Seine  in  Paris  I  picked  up  a  little  book.  It 
is  of  a  mottled  dark  brown  leather  in  binding,  that 
color  that  speaks  age  and  ripeness  in  a  volume, 
as  gray  hairs  upon  a  man.  The  inside  cover  pages 
are  marbled  and  the  edges  are  of  brickdust  red; 
the  print  is  large  and  there  are  those  s's  that  look 
like  f's  in  the  style  of  long  ago.  And  the  book 
is  all  about  something  so  delightfully  useless  and 
interesting,  to  wit: 

"Sur  les  Grands  Evenements  par  les  Petites 
Causea.  Tire  de  L'Histoire.  A  Geneve.  Et  se 
trouve  a  Paris.  M.DCC.LXIV."  Which,  being 
Englished,  is  to  say:  "Upon  the  Great  Events 
Produced  by  Little  Causes.  Drawn  from  History. 
(Published)  at  Geneva.  And  to  be  had  at  Paris, 

1764." 

Within  the  book  are  most  diverting  instances 
collected  by  the  author.  Here  are  a  few  of  the 
heads  of  chapters,  and  in  these  titles  alone  is 
stimulant  to  the  imagination;  each  tells  a  story: 

"A  Bee  Sting  is  Cause  of  the  Raising  of  the 
Siege  of  a  City." 

"Some  chickens  captured  by  a  Priest  Cause  a 
Terrible  Sedition  to  be  Laid." 

71 


"The  Naivete  of  a  Child  prevents  a  Rebellion 
in  France." 

"Meat  eaten  upon  a  Friday  causes  the  Taking 
of  a  City." 

"A  Woodsaw  causes  a  War." 

"Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England,  refuses  aid  to 
Henry  IV.  during  the  League  because  a  French 
Gentleman  says  she  pronounces  the  French  Lan- 
guage badly." 

"The  jealousy  of  a  Woman  causes  the  Ruin  of 
a  Vast  Empire." 

"A  dispute  among  Coachmen  embroils  the 
Courts  of  France  and  Spain,  to  such  a  point  that 
they  set  about  to  prepare  for  War." 

"An  apple  is  the  cause  of  the  Exile  of  an  Em- 
press and  of  the  Death  of  a  Grand  Officer." 

"A  Hare,  frightened  by  a  noise,  is  the  cause  of 
Rome's  being  taken  by  Assault." 

All  of  which  brings  to  mind  the  curious  reflec- 
tion we  all  have  had,  how  that  great  issues  seem 
to  turn  upon  small  hinges;  how  that  a  man  may 
stub  his  toe  and  stumble  into  fame ;  how  that  a  pin- 
prick may  destroy  a  life,  a  glance  disrupt  a  home, 
and  a  small  word  undo  a  kingdom. 

All  this,  however,  is  more  apparent  than  real. 
This  world  is  not  ordered  by  luck.  The  great 
laws  are  true.  Only  we  understand  but  imper- 
fectly what  the  great  laws  are.  One  of  these 
trifling  incidents  that  cause  great  events  may  seem 
small  and  unrelated,  but  in  reality  it  is  a  corner 
of  some  great  law. 

72 


REST 

WE  do  not  want  "the  saints'  everlasting  rest" 
nor  that  other  saintly  activity  of  a  heaven 

When  congregations  ne'er  break  up 
And  Sabbaths  have  no  end. 

When  we  say  we  would  like  to  rest  forever,  or 
that  we  should  love  to  be  always  busy,  it  is  but 
the  extravagant  over-statement  of  a  mood. 

There  is  but  one  thing  in  this  regard  that  we 
all  want,  and  that  is  a  due  and  proper  alternation. 

The  true  human  need  is  rhythm.  Human 
torment  is  lack  of  rhythm,  the  continuing  of  any- 
thing too  long. 

We  live  in  a  thus-organized  universe,  with  its 
night  and  day.  And  in  climes  where  there  is  no 
change  of  seasons  it  is  difficult  for  civilization  to 
develop. 

We  crave  rest  only  after  surfeit  of  activity: 
we  crave  exercise  only  after  enough  rest. 

One  great  problem  of  the  world's  work  is  how 
to  get  the  most  efficiency  out  of  the  laborer. 

The  higher  the  order  of  work,  that  is,  the 
more  it  requires  brain  and  nerve  rather  than  mere 

73 


muscle,  the  more  it  needs  alternation.  That  is  to 
say,  you  can  write  a  better  novel,  or  think  out 
better  a  business  problem,  by  going  away  and  com- 
ing back  than  by  sticking  to  it.  The  extra  hour 
you  put  in  when  you  are  fagged  is  not  worth  ten 
minutes  in  the  morning  when  you  are  fresh. 

There  has  been  much  cursing  of  idleness.  One 
of  the  great  religious  organizers  wrote  a  note  for 
his  followers : 

"Never  be  uselessly  or  triflingly  employed." 
And  in  school  we  learned  the  motto :  "Give  every 
idle  moment  something  to  keep  in  store."  We 
were  exhorted  to  make  every  minute  count. 

All  of  which  shows  how  honest  people  are  a 
little  crazy.  For  a  man's  life  can  be  nothing  but 
commonplace  if  he  is  tense  and  earnest  every  wak- 
ing moment. 

Idleness  is  as  necessary  to  good  work  as  is  ac- 
tivity. The  man  who  can  take  hold  hard  and  to 
some  purpose  is  the  man  who  knows  how  to  let  go. 

That  body  is  strongest  and  fittest  that  can  relax 
perfectly  between  efforts.  That  mind  is  likest 
"steel  that  bends  and  springs  again,"  that  can 
dream  and  wander  at  times. 

After  this  life  I  do  not  look  to  sinking  into 
endless  rest,  nor  to  go  on  in  ceaseless  vigor;  but 
yonder  I  shall  tire  and  wake  again,  according  to 
the  law  of  all  life;  I  shall  be  an  endless  pulsing, 
an  endless  rhythm,  and  not  an  endless  note. 


74 


WALLS   AND    ARMOR 

ONE  marked  way  in  which  the  modern  world 
differs  in  appearance  from  the  ancient  world  is  the 
absence  of  walls. 

Every  city  in  antique  days  was  surrounded  by 
a  huge  pile  of  stone  wherein  were  thick  gates. 
No  city  in  modern  civilization  has  a  wall  which  it 
uses  for  defense;  some  of  them  have  remains  of 
walls  preserved  as  curiosities. 

The  Chinese  built  a  vast  wall  to  defend  their 
whole  frontier. 

The  walls  about  the  city  of  Rome  still  stand, 
but  are  of  no  military  use.  They  are  pre- 
served merely  for  their  picturesqueness. 

The  castles,  towers,  and  strongholds  of  a  for- 
mer age  in  Europe  are  practically  now  in  the 
same  category  as  grandfather's  sword  that  hangs 
over  the  fireplace. 

In  Paris  the  old  wall  lines  are  replaced  by 
boulevards. 

Formerly  a  city  of  ten  thousand  was  not  con- 
sidered safe  without  a  protecting  wall  to  keep 
out  the  enemy;  now  cities  of  millions  are  wide 
open. 

75 


At  the  same  time  armor  has  disappeared.  It 
can  be  found  only  in  museums  and  among  the 
relics  in  family  halls. 

The  plain  reason  seems  to  be  that  the  invention 
has  rendered  walls  and  armor  almost  useless.  No 
barrier  of  stone  can  be  built  that  cannot  be  pul- 
verized by  modern  guns;  no  armor  made  that 
cannot  be  pierced  by  the  modern  rifle. 

Put  yourself,  now,  in  the  place  of  a  person 
living  in  the  age  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  or 
Chevalier  Bayard,  and  suppose  you  were  told 
that  the  time  would  come  when  walls  and  armor 
would  no  more  be  used ;  would  it  not  seem  to  you 
unthinkable?  You  would  be  prone  to  say,  "If 
you  take  away  walls  from  the  city  and  armor 
from  the  duke,  how  can  society  exist?  Would  not 
the  barbarians  speedily  invade  and  extinguish  civ- 
ilization?" 

Logically,  they  would.     Really,  they  did  not. 

One  of  the  slowest  lessons  men  learn  is  that 
when  they  cease  to  defend  they  cease  to  be  at- 
tacked. 

When  walls  were  removed  invasions  practically 
ceased.  The  taking  off  of  armor  made  the  noble's 
life  safer.  There  is  no  reason,  except  divine 
reason,  in  this.  It  is  simply  a  fact. 

In  the  same  way  the  abolition  of  armies  and 
navies  by  the  nations  of  the  world  just  as  cer- 
tainly mean  the  cessation  of  the  menace  of  invasion 
or  any  other  sort  of  war. 

Isn't  it  queer  how  many  thousand  years  it  takes 


a  stupid  world  to  learn  the  plain  common-sense  of 
Jesus,  who  said  that  the  best  way  to  conquer  the 
man  who  smites  you  on  one  cheek  is  to  turn  the 
other? 


77 


THE  ARGUMENT   OF  TOMBS 

MAN  is  distinguished  from  all  other  living 
beings  by  the  fact  that  he  builds  tombs. 

He  has  been  defined  as  the  animal  who  laughs, 
or  who  uses  tools,  or  who  makes  fires,  or  who 
thinks,  or  who  speaks;  but  certainly  he  is  the  only 
animal  that  erects  sepulchres. 

He  builds  houses;  so  do  muskrats  and  birds. 
He  organizes  into  co-operative  society;  so  do 
bees.  He  forms  armies,  under  captains  and  gen- 
erals ;  so  do  ants,  which  insects  also  have  hospitals 
for  the  sick  and  schools  for  the  young.  There  are 
insects  and  other  lower  forms  of  animal  creatures 
that  weave  and  spin,  set  traps,  and  hunt  game. 

But  no  earth  denizen  save  man  buries  its  dead 
and  puts  up  a  tombstone.  In  other  words,  it  is 
only  human  beings  that  act  as  though  their  dead 
are  in  some  way  sensible  of  respect  shown  them. 
Almost  all  other  human  instincts,  but  not  this,  can 
be  traced  back  to  the  brutes. 

As  far  back  as  the  race  is  found  there  are  burial 
places.  The  remains  of  tombs  are  more  ancient 
than  the  remains  of  dwelling  places.  Cities  of  the 
dead,  in  archaeology,  antedate  cities  for  the  living. 

Most  of  the  ancient  curiosities  in  museums  are 
ornaments  or  equipments  of  sepulchres. 

78 


The  most  permanent,  the  richest,  and  most 
enduring  of  structures  are  those  that  were  built 
for  the  dead.  The  dwelling  places  of  the  aborig- 
inal Americans  have  disappeared;  the  only  name 
we  have  for  them  is  "mound  builders,"  which 
means  grave-makers,  for  the  vast  mounds  they  put 
up  are  but  tombs. 

The  Mausoleum  of  Halicarnassus  was  one  of 
the  seven  wonders  of  ancient  times.  It  was  a 
tomb. 

The  Pyramids  of  Egypt  are  still  unique  master- 
pieces of  architecture.  They  are  tombs. 

The  Taj  Mahal  is  considered  one  of  the  glories 
of  earth.  It  is  a  tomb. 

Even  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  is  the  magnificent 
tomb  of  an  apostle,  and  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne, 
the  most  marvellous  Gothic  building  in  the  world, 
was  erected  as  the  tomb  for  the  bones  of  the  Magi. 

The  most  conspicuous  object  in  Paris,  the  cap- 
ital of  Europe,  is  Napoleon's  tomb  by  the  bank 
of  the  Seine ;  and  in  the  capital  of  the  new  world 
the  most  striking  object  is  the  monument  of  Wash- 
ington. 

By  the  side  of  every  city  or  town  of  the  living, 
all  over  the  earth,  is  the  city  or  town  of  the  dead. 

The  instinct  that  insists  so  universally  as  this 
that  the  dead  still  live  is  worth  more  than  a 
thousand  arguments  that  would  prove  man  to  be 
extinct  at  death  as  the  beasts  are. 


79 


THE  PHILISTINE 

"By  a  Philistine,"  says  Augustine  Birrell,  "I 
suppose  we  mean  one  who  lives  and  moves  and 
has  his  being  in  the  realm  of  ordinary  and  con- 
ventional ideas." 

Hamerton's  definition  of  Philistinism  is:  "It 
consists  in  the  perfect  willingness  to  remain  out- 
side of  every  intellectual  movement,  and  the  re- 
striction of  one's  mental  activities  to  riches  and 
religion." 

The  Standard  Dictionary  says  a  Philistine  is: 
"A  blind  adherent  to  conventional  ideas;  an  ig- 
norant and  narrow-minded  person,  especially  one 
given  to  money-making;  one  devoid  of  culture." 

The  Philistine  hates  change;  not  because  it  is 
bad,  nor  because  it  is  good,  but  because  it  is 
change. 

His  idea  of  the  movement  of  the  world  is  that 
it  is  a  constant  deterioration  from  a  once  ideal 
condition.  Progress  is  a  humbug;  there  is  no 
such  thing;  humanity  is  in  full  retreat. 

In  religion  he  believes  that  at  some  period  in 
the  past,  say  in  the  days  of  John  Wesley,  Martin 
Luther,  Pope  Hildebrand,  Saint  Augustine,  or  the 
Apostle  Paul,  Christianity  was  ideally  pure;  ever 

80 


since  it  has  been  growing  more  and  more  corrupt. 

In  politics  his  fixed  contention  is  that  the  history 
of  the  United  States  is  a  steady  falling  away  from 
the  standards  of  Washington  and  Hamilton. 

The  initiative,  the  referendum,  the  direct  vote 
by  the  people  for  United  States  senators,  the  state 
ownership  of  railways  and  telegraph  lines,  the 
parcel  post,  the  postal  savings  system — all  of  these 
are  the  result  of  anarchistic  and  socialistic  (they 
both  mean  the  same  to  him)  teachings,  which  are 
due  to  the  foreigners  among  us.  They  are  un- 
American. 

Labor  unions,  movements  to  better  the  pay  and 
conditions  of  wage-earners,  government  interfer- 
ence in  the  affairs  of  corporations,  and  all  such 
things  are  vicious  attacks  by  the  envious  Havenots 
upon  the  Haves. 

He  is  charitable  in  the  good  old  way;  that  is, 
charity  with  him  is  a  dole  to  the  poor,  a  penny 
dropped  in  a  beggar's  hand,  a  generous  subscrip- 
tion to  the  church,  to  be  used  in  feeding  those  only 
who  are  strictly  worthy.  The  attempt  to  bring 
about  fundamental  justice  he  scouts  as  radicalism. 

He  employs  girls  in  his  business  at  so  low  a 
wage  as  to  bring  upon  them  severe  economic  com- 
pulsion to  become  thieves  or  prostitutes.  Thus 
he  makes  a  million,  out  of  which  he  endows  a 
dormitory  at  his  denominational  college,  builds  a 
memorial  church  in  his  native  town,  and  poses  as 
a  philanthropist. 

Often  such  men  are  so  disgusted  with  the  unrest 
Si 


of  America  and  our  disposition  unduly  to  pry  into 
people's  private  affairs  (as,  for  instance,  inquiring 
how  such  and  such  a  man  made  his  money)  that 
he  moves  to  England,  where  common  people  know 
their  place  and  tip  their  hats,  and  where  the  class 
idea  is  inground  into  the  nature  of  all. 

The  only  cure  for  Philistinism  is  death.  Na- 
ture at  last  kindly  removes  him,  as  she  at  last  takes 
away  all  stones  in  the  highway  of  progress. 


82 


THE  THEATRE  AND  MORALS 

THERE  are  a  good  many  people  yet  who  think 
that  an  actor  is  usually  a  man  of  loose  morals. 

And  there  is  no  doubt  that  conditions  of  life 
behind  the  scenes  are  not  as  a  rule  conducive  to 
the  development  of  the  best  qualities  of  character. 

The  reason  of  this  is  a  peculiar  and  most  human 
one.  The  portion  of  society  that  calls  itself  "the 
best"  (those  organized  in  churches  for  the  moral 
uplift  of  mankind)  unfortunately  fell  into  the 
grievous  error  of  stigmatizing  as  bad  a  calling 
which  in  itself  is  just  as  good  as  selling  dry  goods 
and  might  be  made  just  as  helpful  as  preaching. 

Get  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter  and  you  will 
admit,  if  you  be  clear-minded,  that  acting  is  one 
of  the  natural  functions  of  men  and  women.  It 
is  the  first  profession  of  every  child.  The  baby's 
first  occupation  is  "playing"  mother  or  father  or 
grocer  or  teamster  or  preacher. 

Acting  ought  to  be  as  honorable  as  preaching 
or  writing.  It  is  a  normal  form  of  the  interpreta- 
tion of  life. 

How  did  it  come  to  have  a  bad  name?  Simply 
because  it  gives  pleasure.  I  do  not  like  to  say 
any  hard  words  against  Puritanism,  because  we 

83 


owe  to  it  many  a  debt  for  its  stanch  righteousness 
and  its  deep  sense  of  human  responsibility;  but 
along  with  the  angels  of  Puritanism  "Satan  came 
also" ;  and  the  Satan  was  a  deep  suspicion  toward 
plain  human  happiness. 

The  stage  fell  under  the  ban  of  the  church,  and 
it  was  a  sad  thing  for  both.  For  the  theatre  did 
become  bad,  according  to  the  well-known  law  that 
if  you  continually  call  any  class  of  people  bad  they 
tend  to  become  so. 

And  the  church  was  injured,  because,  having 
taken  a  false  position,  it  felt  bound  to  stick  to  it. 
There  is  no  consistency  so  terrible  as  the  con- 
sistency of  those  whose  profession  it  is  to  be  good. 

Fortunately  the  theatre  is  outgrowing  its  anath- 
ema. Some  church  circles  still  glower,  but  for 
the  most  part  society  has  come  to  recognize  the 
inherent  worthiness  of  the  profession  of  acting. 

Mrs.  Jameson  puts  it  justly,  and  not  too  strong, 
when  she  says:  "When  conventional  law  or  pub- 
lic opinion  denounces  as  inexpedient  what  they  can- 
not prove  to  be  wrong,  stigmatize  what  they  allow, 
take  delight  in  what  they  affect  to  condemn,  what 
wonder  that  from  such  barbarous,  such  senseless 
inconsistency,  should  spring  a  whole  heap  of  abuses 
and  mistakes!  As  to  the  idea  that  acting,  as  a 
profession,  is  incompatible  with  female  virtue  and 
modesty,  it  is  not  merely  an  insult  to  the  estimable 
women  who  have  adorned  and  still  adorn  the 
stage,  but  to  all  womankind.  It  makes  me  blush 
with  indignation." 

84 


COMPANIONSHIP  WITH  SUPERIORS 

"THAT  which  is  beneath  me  destroys  me ;  that 
which  is  on  my  level  bores  me;  it  is  only  that 
which  is  higher  than  I  that  sustains  me  and  lifts 
me  out  of  myself,"  wrote  Mile,  de  1'Espinasse. 

Every  one  of  us  is  conscious  of  a  fatal  inertia 
of  character.  We  naturally  slide  into  inefficiency, 
slump  into  good-for-nothingness  and  poor  work. 
It  takes  constant  effort  to  go  on  up.  Eternal  vig- 
ilance seems  to  be  the  price  of  anything  that  is  of 
any  account. 

One  reason  for  this  is  that  we  naturally  like 
inferior  environment.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  with 
those  to  whom  we  are  superior;  it  flatters  us,  cod- 
dles our  pride,  and  gently  strokes  our  self-esteem. 
It  is  so  nice  to  be  the  biggest  toad  in  the  puddle. 

Also  we  are  comfortable  among  our  equals. 
That  is  why  one  does  not  want  to  marry  one  who 
is  too  superior.  That  is  why  we  gather  in  clubs, 
lodges,  churches,  and  social  circles  where  we  are 
all  about  so-so. 

We  can  get  along  with  inferiors,  we  prefer  our 
equals,  we  resist  our  betters. 

And  therein  we  make  a  mistake;  for  the  secret 
of  growth  and  expansion  in  life  consists  in  persis- 

85 


tently  choosing  for  companions  minds  that  are 
richer  and  souls  that  are  higher  than  our  own. 

I  will  tell  you  a  secret;  originality  and  genius 
are  not  your  own,  they  are  what  you  are  able  to 
get  from  those  higher  than  you. 

"A  man's  personality,"  writes  J.  W.  Scott  of 
the  University  of  Glasgow,  "is  a  thing  which  needs 
to  be  made.  He  does  not  bring  it  full  fledged  into 
the  world  with  him.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  per- 
sonality is  a  thing  which  a  man  absorbs  from  his 
environment  as  a  plant  absorbs  air  and  light.  We 
are  all  plagiarists.  In  the  last  resort  everything 
we  have  to  know  is  borrowed." 

Hence,  "it  must  follow  as  the  night  the  day" 
that  if  our  environment  is  as  a  rule  worse  than 
ourselves  we  gradually  degenerate,  and  if  it  is 
commonly  better  than  ourselves  we  steadily  im- 
prove. 

No  mind  is  first  class  that  is  not  continually 
reading  books  and  conversing  with  men  that  re- 
quire an  effort  to  be  understood.  The  novel- 
soaked  intellect,  gormandizing  upon  easy  reading, 
grows  flabby. 

No  one  becomes  a  first-rate  business  man  who 
is  a  better  business  man  than  all  he  meets.  The 
best  things  a  worker  learns  he  gets  from  better 
workmen. 

The  truth  grows  still  more  lambent  in  the  in- 
ner realm  of  character.  There  is  only  one  way 
to  grow  nobler,  stronger,  gentler,  more  cultured, 
and  altogether  greater  souled,  and  that  is  to  have 

86 


some  companionship  with  souls  greater  than  we. 

Even  if  we  cannot  meet  such  in  our  daily  doings, 
we  can  find  them  in  books.  We  can  have  an  inner 
companionship  of  superiors,  even  when  all  outer 
fellowship  is  low. 

The  ear  of  the  soul,  if  one  will  listen,  can  al- 
ways hear  "the  choir  invisible." 


MANKIND   LOVES  FIGHTING 

IT  is  generally  assumed  as  an  axiom  that  all 
persons  want  peace. 

Considering  the  well-known  facts  in  the  career 
of  the  human  race  this  is  a  curious  mistake.  For 
if  there  is  any  one  thing  mankind  seems  to  be 
fond  of  more  than  another  it  is  a  row. 

Man  emerges  from  the  mists  of  prehistoric 
times  fighting. 

The  oldest  implements  of  the  stone  age  and  of 
the  cave  dwellers  and  lake  peoples  are  not  sofas 
and  rocking  chairs,  but  knives,  axes,  and  arrows, 
with  which  they  chopped  one  another  in  the  head. 

Homer's  pages,  the  old  Greek  folk  song,  are 
full  of  hackings  and  hewings  of  men.  The  Iliad 
is  as  sanguinary  as  the  Chicago  stockyards. 

The  Romans  fought,  the  Teutons  fought,  the 
Celts  fought,  the  Japanese  fought,  the  American 
Indians  fought. 

No  power  appears  ever  to  have  been  able  to 
eradicate  the  innate  pugnacity  of  human  beings. 
The  Christians  were  peaceable  for  a  while  at  first, 
but  as  soon  as  they  got  into  power  they  went  at 
one  another  with  the  force  of  a  ferocity  long  pent 
up.  Homoousians  and  homoiousians  threw  bricks 

88 


as  hard  as  their  names.  Aryans  and  Trinitarians 
flew  at  each  other's  throats.  The  orthodox 
burned  and  tortured  the  heretic. 

We  love  to  explain  the  simplest  things  by  com- 
plex motives.  A  hundred  causes  have  been  ad- 
duced for  the  continued  existence  of  the  nuisance 
of  militarism.  The  real  cause  is  simple.  It  is 
that  human  nature  wants  to  fight. 

You  can  see  this  in  its  most  undiluted  form 
among  small  boys.  One  of  them  comes  up  to 
anther  and  says: 

"I  can  lick  you." 

Whereupon  they  go  to  it,  hammer  and  tongs. 

Prizefighting  will  not  go  out  of  style  for  many 
a  year  yet;  for  it  is  the  game  of  the  primeval  man; 
it  appeals  to  an  instinct  much  older  than  that  of 
money  making  or  reading. 

The  boy-child  loves  to  pound  things  and  people, 
to  make  a  noise,  and  to  keep  up  the  din  of  battle 
according  to  his  lights.  The  college  boy  loves  to 
smash  windows  and  street  lamps,  to  haze,  scuffle 
and  organize  high  jinks. 

Man  is  still  only  half  evolved  from  the  brute. 
He  is  still  a  ferocious  animal.  His  canine  teeth 
have  not  yet  disappeared  and  become  bovine 
molars. 

He  still  considers  business  and  commerce  as 
fighting,  politics  as  fighting,  religion  as  fighting. 
He  understands  no  way  of  accomplishing  things 
but  by  organizing  some  kind  of  an  army  and 
fighting. 

89 


SQUARE  PEGS,  ROUND   HOLES,  AND 
MORALITY 

No  amount  of  scientific  talk  about  heredity  and 
environment  can  get  the  conviction  out  of  men's 
minds  that  an  individual  is  personally  responsible 
for  his  wrong  actions.  So  long  as  conscience  con- 
tinues to  operate  we  shall  feel  to  blame  when  we 
have  done  anything  cowardly  and  unjust. 

At  the  same  time  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  deal 
of  the  blame  we  put  upon  the  man  should  really 
be  put  upon  circumstances.  A  lot  of  immorality 
is  mere  misplacement. 

A  man  in  the  wrong  place  is  pretty  sure  to  give 
symptoms  of  what  it  used  to  be  the  fashion  to  call 
sin  and  iniquity.  Really,  it  is  friction  that  ails  him. 

A  theatrical  manager  the  other  day  called  my 
attention  to  the  curious  fact  that  certain  actors, 
who  were  unreliable,  unpunctual,  and  irresponsible 
in  almost  every  relation  of  life,  were  faithful  in 
the  performance  of  their  stage  duties.  It  seems 
to  be  a  sort  of  religious  principle  among  theatre 
folk  to  be  on  hand  when  they  are  due  to  appear. 
Their  moral  sense  is  keen  here,  when  it  is  rather 
lax  in  other  directions. 

However  unreliable  a  physician  may  be  in  or- 
90 


dinary  matters,  when  it  comes  to  his  professional 
duty  he  is  usually  alert  and  conscientious.  There 
is  something  about  a  "case"  that  can  turn  a  lazy, 
immoral  physician  into  a  person  of  absolute  prob- 
ity and  faithfulness,  at  least  temporarily. 

In  other  words,  when  the  lax  physician  or  actor 
is  at  his  work  he  seems  to  tighten  up;  his  moral 
fibre  becomes  normal.  He  is  in  his  right  place. 
In  his  right  place  a  man  is  apt  to  be  moral. 

Take  the  boy  whom  nature  intended  to  be  a 
farmer.  Place  him  in  a  city  clerkship  and  he 
shows  himself  not  only  a  poor  clerk,  but  a  person 
of  more  or  less  looseness  in  his  private  life.  Send 
him  out  to  a  ranch,  where  he  belongs,  keep  him  in 
the  open  air  and  at  vigorous  physical  activity  and 
his  whole  nature  sweetens  up. 

The  first  immorality  is  to  allow  one's  self  to 
get  into  the  wrong  place.  Of  course,  we  cannot 
always  control  circumstances,  and  often  are  com- 
pelled to  work  under  irritating  conditions.  But 
too  often  we  go  on  in  surroundings  that  are  fatal 
to  us,  just  because  we  are  too  fearful  or  too  in- 
dolent to  risk  a  change. 

Be  slow  to  condemn  a  boy  or  girl.  Much  of 
their  apparent  fickleness  and  worthlessness  is  un- 
rest, is  that  uneasiness  that  affects  all  people  who 
have  not  "found  themselves,"  which  usually  means 
found  their  right  work. 

There  are  natural-born  sailors,  merchants, 
poets,  actors,  artists,  bakers,  and  commercial 
travellers.  People  are  of  all  spiritual  shapes, 

9* 


round,  square,  hexagonal.  Somewhere  there  is  a 
hole  for  each  of  them  that  fits.  Each  man  is  a 
sort  of  Yale  key  that  will  go  smoothly  into  just 
a  certain  lock. 

Half  of  morality  is  finding  out  where  you  be- 
long, going  there,  and  staying  there. 


92 


BUNK 

I  WISH  deliberately  to  use  a  word  of  the  street, 
a  low-caste  word,  because  it  will  do  for  me  what 
no  word  from  Back  Bay,  Yale  College  or  the  Court 
of  St.  James  will  do;  it  will  express  my  meaning 
with  rude  precision;  just  as  I  would  use  a  low- 
browed bailiff  to  abate  a  nuisance  I  would  not  want 
to  tackle  myself. 

The  word  is — Bunk. 

It  is  derived  from  bunco,  meaning  to  swindle, 
to  impose  upon.  To  a  few  specimens  of  venerable 
and  honored  Bunk  I  wish  to  invite  your  eye. 

First  is  Class.  In  that  literature  that  treats  of 
the  English  nobility,  European  aristocracy  or 
New  York  fashionables,  that  literature  that  is  the 
delight  of  school  misses  and  servant  girls,  and  that 
prevails  in  the  Broadway  magazines  and  in  the 
Tauchnitz  novels,  the  fundamental  subsumption  is 
that  Class  is  something  real,  like  a  stone  fence. 
In  reality  it  is  no  more  than  a  chalk-mark  on  the 
floor;  if  you  don't  see  it  you  will  never  stumble 
over  it.  It  is  pure  rabbit's  foot.  It  is  Bunk. 

Out  of  the  Bunk-bag  I  take  another  sample, 
quite  at  random.  It  is  "the  conflict  of  religion  and 
science."  There  never  was,  and  in  the  nature  of 

93 


the  case  can  never  be,  such  a  conflict.  Humbug 
religion  and  humbug  science,  both  or  either,  are 
fruitful  in  conflict. 

Mystical,  involved,  unclear  writing  of  any  kind, 
by  anybody,  is  Bunk;  and  that  whether  the  offender 
is  a  great  poet  or  a  great  religious  faddist,  or  a 
business  promoter.  I  name  no  names,  as  I  do  not 
wish  to  make  you  angrier  than  I  must.  But  set  it 
down  that  when  one  cannot  say  plainly  what  he  has 
to  say  he  doesn't  know.  Even  the  physician  who 
maintains  an  air  of  deep  wisdom  and  will  not  dis- 
cuss your  case  with  you;  the  devotee  of  the  New 
Faith  who  smiles  painedly  at  your  simple  questions 
and  says,  "Oh,  you  don't  understand,  you  cannot" ; 
the  statesman  who  conceals  mighty  secrets  behind 
his  massive  countenance,  but  can't  tell  you  what  it's 
all  about;  the  banker  who  assures  you  that  what 
he  does  with  your  money  is  too  complicated  for 
your  grasping;  throw  them  all  into  the  Bunk-bag. 

And  if  you  can  find  any  plain,  honest,  ordinary 
folk  who  are  keeping  store  or  writing  books  or 
making  poetry  or  painting  pictures,  or  keeping 
house,  or  worshipping  God,  and  are  doing  it  all 
openly,  naturally,  and  straightforwardly,  go  and 
consort  with  them,  and  enjoy  this  present  world. 


94 


THE  WEAKNESS   OF   CURSING 

WE  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  whether  it  has 
ever  done  much  good  to  tell  men  how  bad  they  are. 

Scolding,  fault-finding,  satire,  irony,  lampoon- 
ing, exposing,  cursing,  and  condemning  are  all 
interesting  and  easy.  Everybody  seems  born  with 
a  knack  for  this  sort  of  thing. 

But  the  whole  business  is  a  business  of  weak- 
ness, not  of  strength. 

Swearing  is  a  symptom  of  a  lack  of  proper  vo- 
cabulary. A  man  is  profane  because  he  has  not 
the  power  to  express  his  feelings  with  satisfactory 
force  in  good  English. 

A  woman  scolds  because  she  doesn't  know 
enough  to  get  her  own  way  by  diplomacy  and  love. 
It  is  the  woman  who  is  impotent  to  control  her 
child  that  hectors  him.  It  is  the  consciousness  of 
her  lack  of  proper  influence  over  her  husband  that 
causes  her  to  nag  him. 

Complaint  is  the  language  of  failure.  It  is  the 
utterance  of  self-pity,  and  self-pity  is  the  effort  of 
a  contemptible  spirit  to  attract  attention. 

The  only  trade  in  which  a  failure  can  be  suc- 
cessful is  faultfinding.  In  that  occupation  the  less 
your  ability  the  sharper  your  triumph. 

95 


There  are  two  kinds  of  critics,  interpretive 
and  destructive.  The  former  seek  to  help  the 
reader  understand  the  author;  such  are  rare,  some 
of  them  are  great.  The  latter  seem  to  regard 
every  work  as  a  challenge,  they  attack  it  with  all 
the  airs  and  poses  of  jealous  egotism;  such  are 
plentiful,  all  of  them  are  small. 

The  glibness  of  cursing  is  fatal.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  prophets  and  preachers.  One  kind  be- 
rates the  people  for  their  wickedness;  the  other 
helps  the  people  to  discover  their  goodness.  The 
former  draws  crowds.  The  latter  helps  along. 

Jeremiah  has  a  deal  more  to  say  in  the  Bible 
than  Jesus.  Jeremiah  was  the  forerunner  of 
downfall,  Jesus  the  redeemer  of  the  world. 

The  majesty  of  Jesus  lay  in  his  amazing  power 
of  seeing  good  in  everybody — except  Pharisees. 
To  my  mind  there  was  nothing  recorded  that  Jesus 
ever  did  that  is  greater  than  his  action  toward  the 
woman  taken  in  adultery,  where  he  simply  declined 
to  curse  her  (what  an  opportunity  the  orthodox 
moralist  thinks  he  missed!),  and  said: 

"Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.  Go  and  sin  no 
more." 

Says  Goethe:  "When  I  have  called  bad  bad, 
how  much  is  gained  by  that?  The  man  who  would 
work  aright  must  not  deal  in  censure,  must  not 
trouble  himself  about  what  is  bad,  but  show  and 
do  what  is  good." 


THE   BAFFLING   SOUL 

You  can  measure  a  wall  or  a  carpet  with  a  yard- 
stick; you  cannot  measure  the  lightning. 

You  can  cast  a  plumbline  down  a  pit  to  fathom 
the  ocean's  depth,  but  you  cannot  tell  how  deep  is 
the  grief  of  a  mother  with  her  dead  child  in  her 
lap. 

You  can  calculate  the  distance  of  a  star,  but 
there  are  no  lenses  or  logarithms  by  which  to  es- 
timate the  joy  of  two  lovers.  You  can  analyze 
water,  earth,  or  gases,  and  determine  their  con- 
stitutent  parts,  but  you  cannot  get  at  the  elements 
that  compose  innocence,  conscience,  or  remorse. 

You  can  set  a  value  in  dollars  and  cents  upon 
the  services  of  a  salesman  or  a  bricklayer,  but  you 
cannot  even  approximate  the  value  of  an  act  of 
unselfish  helpfulness. 

What  is  the  price  of  a  golden  deed?  What 
price-mark  shall  we  put  upon  the  act  of  the  fire- 
man who  dies  trying  to  save  a  human  being  in  a 
burning  building,  or  of  a  mother  drowning  that 
her  baby  may  be  rescued,  of  the  policeman  shot  at 
his  post  of  duty,  of  such  as  Regulus  and  Nathan 
Hale? 

There  are  sentiments  before  which  reason  is 
97 


dumb  and  even  theology  is  confounded.  Moses 
asked  that  his  own  name  be  blotted  from  Je- 
hovah's remembrance  if  his  people  were  not  to  be 
saved;  and  Paul  declared  himself  willing  to  be 
accused  for  his  brethren's  sake. 

There  is  not  so  tall  an  angel  in  the  human  heart 
as  self-sacrifice. 

There  is  no  shine,  of  sun,  of  lamps,  or  of  rose- 
cut  diamonds,  so  dazzling  and  beautiful  as  cer- 
tain shinings  of  the  face  when  a  high  thought 
burns  behind  it. 

There  are  no  flowers  so  tinted  and  fragrant  as 
certain  flowers  that  grow  in  the  garden  of  hearts. 

Weigh  the  clouds  and  measure  the  east  wind, 
but  wherewithal  shall  you  gauge  the  pressure  of 
passions,  or  with  what  aerometer  shall  you  indi- 
cate the  storm  force  of  desire? 

The  earthquake  makes  its  record  upon  the 
seismograph,  but  where  is  the  record  of  the  trem- 
bling that  seizes  souls,  such  as  bleached  the  hair 
of  Jean  Valjean? 

And  what  of  the  spirit's  phonograph,  called 
memory;  the  spirit's  telephone  called  sympathy; 
and  the  spirit's  heat  and  cold,  called  love  and 
hate? 

There  are  more  mysteries  in  the  mind  of  man 
than  in  all  heaven  and  hell ;  there  are  further  dis- 
tances than  Arcturus,  snowier  peaks  than  the  Him- 
alayas, and  stiller,  stranger  deeps  than  the  under- 
seas. 


THE  IMMORALITY   OF  FEAR 

IT  is  doubtful  if  fear  is  ever  of  any  moral  use. 
It  is  doubtful  if  a  man  who  refrains  from  doing 
wrong  because  of  his  fear  of  punishment  is  any 
better  than  the  man  who  does  the  wrong  and  is 
not  afraid. 

We  are  only  beginning  the  proper  study  of 
psychology,  and  not  until  we  get  together  a  de- 
pendable body  of  psychological  truths  can  we  have 
a  reliable  system  of  ethics. 

We  are  already  glimpsing  this  truth,  that  the 
effect  of  fear  upon  one's  morals  is  wholly  toxic; 
in  plain  English,  fear  is  poison  in  any  shape  or 
form. 

Sometimes  it  is  necessary  to  use  fear,  but  it  is 
legitimately  used  only  to  protect  the  offender  or 
his  victim  from  harm,  and  never  to  improve  the 
character.  For  instance,  we  can  properly  play 
upon  a  child's  fears  to  keep  him  from  going  too 
near  the  precipice  or  from  handling  a  revolver; 
but  that  is  simply  to  protect  his  life.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  never  right  to  excite  his  fear  to  induce 
him  to  be  truthful,  honest,  and  good — that  is  to 
say,  when  the  effect  is  character,  fear  is  a  dan- 
gerous means. 

99 


In  the  moral  realm  probity,  honesty,  and  virtue 
in  general  are  not  ends  in  themselves;  they  are 
praiseworthy  only  when  they  are  the  natural  forth- 
putting  of  the  mind  and  heart. 

What  one  does  from  fear  is  never  good.  All 
the  real  virtues  are  forms  of  courage.  A  woman 
who  is  pure  because  she  is  afraid  of  the  conse- 
quences of  being  otherwise  is,  to  use  Pope's 
phrase,  "a  rake  at  heart." 

A  man  who  tells  the  truth  for  fear  of  being 
caught  if  he  were  to  lie  is  a  liar;  he  is  a  worse  liar 
than  the  man  that  lies  and  is  not  afraid;  for  to  his 
inner  disposition  to  lie  is  added  cowardice. 

The  only  safe  character  to  build  up  in  your  child 
is  that  which  renders  him  not  afraid  to  be  good; 
that  is,  to  tell  the  truth,  be  honest  and  keep  clean; 
unafraid  of  any  losses  or  hurts  that  may  come  to 
him  thereby. 

In  other  words,  a  genuinely  good  character  is 
one  that  is  not  afraid  to  be  good;  a  bad  character 
is  one  that  is  either  afraid  to  be  good  or  afraid 
to  be  bad.  The  one  who  is  afraid  to  be  good  is 
the  open  sinner,  for  whom  there  is  some  hope ;  the 
one  who  is  afraid  to  be  bad  is  the  Pharisee,  for 
whom  there  is  small  hope. 

The  fundamental  falsehood  of  falsehoods  is 
that  goodness  and  virtue  are  somehow  weak  and 
timid  and  fearsome;  or  that  it  is  safe  only  in  con- 
vention's shelter. 

The  fundamental  thing  to  learn  in  ethics  is  that 
goodness  is  positive,  constructive,  forceful,  always 

100 


a  form  of  courage;  and  that  badness  is  never 
brave,  always  a  form  of  moral  lesion,  cowardly 
and  weak.  If  we  could  get  the  world  to  believe 
this  people  would  cease  sneering  at  virtue  and 
cease  admiring  the  rapscallions. 

I  find  a  fine  sentence  in  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
where  he  says  of  Mme.  de  Maintenon  that  "she 
was  as  virtuous  as  the  fear  of  hell  and  the  fear  of 
shame  could  make  her." 

The  saving  thing  to  learn  about  uncleanness, 
lying,  and  dishonesty  is  that  when  one  gives  way 
to  such  things  "a  power  is  gone  from  him  which 
nothing  can  restore,"  to  quote  Mrs.  Jameson;  "the 
healthy,  clear  vision  with  which  a  fresh,  pure  mind 
looks  round  upon  the  social  and  natural  world,  be- 
holding the  soul  of  goodness  even  in  things  evil." 


101 


DANGEROUS  SHORT  CUT  IN 
GOVERNMENT 

DEMOCRACY  seems  clumsy.  It  Is  an  awkward, 
indirect  way  to  get  things  done. 

The  business  man  lifts  his  hands  in  horror  at  the 
idea  of  running  his  concern  by  a  vote  of  the  men 
employed  or  by  any  committee;  the  only  efficient 
way  to  do  things,  he  tells  you,  is  for  one  man  to 
do  them.  There  must  be  a  head,  and  one  head, 
to  an  enterprise  if  you  want  success. 

This  is  truth.  The  most  efficient  method  of 
government  is  an  absolute  monarchy.  For  accom- 
plishing results  quickly  and  well  the  best  system  is 
where  there  is  one  unquestioned  boss,  who  does 
not  have  to  consult  anybody. 

It  is  a  dangerous  truth.  It  is  so  treacherous 
in  its  plausibility  that  it  has  deceived  the  very  elect 
in  economics.  Carlyle  sniffed  at  democracy;  he 
was  all  for  the  strong  man,  the  hero. 

But  here  lies  the  trouble:  that  we  cannot  find 
the  human  being  worthy  to  be  intrusted  with  this 
autocratic  power.  There  may  be  such  persons, 
but  there  is  no  way  of  telling  whether  a  given  man 
is  one  of  them. 

102 


We  have  tried  all  sorts  of  methods.  Heredity, 
based  on  the  supposition  that  if  one  were  born 
to  power  there  would  be  no  temptation  for  him  to 
abuse  it.  Placed  by  birth  in  the  place  of  highest 
privilege  he  would  find  nothing  more  he  could 
want,  and  so  could  not  be  bribed.  This  is  the 
English  idea;  government  by  a  class  noble  and 
wealthy  enough  to  be  unbribable. 

But  heredity  won't  work.  Human  nature  is  too 
weak.  The  end  invariably  is  that  the  favored 
man  or  class,  instead  of  feeding  the  sheep,  shears 
them.  They  are  content  to  live  in  luxury,  upborne 
by  the  multitude  in  poverty. 

The  church  has  experimented  with  autocracy, 
but  has  discovered  that  not  even  the  ecclesiastic, 
hedged  in  by  vows  and  plighted  to  a  life  of  as- 
ceticism, can  resist  the  enormous  temptations  of 
absolute  power.  Perhaps  no  government  has  been 
more  tyrannical  and  cruel  than  government  by  the 
parson  in  early  New  England  or  by  the  priest  in 
Europe. 

Even  in  the  family  many  look  with  admiration 
upon  the  old-style  domestic  tyrant,  the  father  who 
gave  a  word  and  a  blow  and  ruled  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  "Ah!  in  those  days  children  were  well  be- 
haved!" 

That  kind  of  father  has  disappeared,  simply  be- 
cause he  was  intolerable.  Absolute  authority  will 
not  work  in  the  family,  in  the  government,  any- 
where. 

Because  it  is  a  short  cut,  aiming  to  do  by  artifi- 
103 


cial  means  what  can  be  well  done  only  by  natural 
means. 

The  object  of  government  is  not  to  get  things 
done,  the  object  of  the  family  is  not  to  secure  si- 
lence and  obedience,  the  object  of  business  is  not 
to  make  money. 

The  object  of  government  is  to  secure  freedom 
and  justice  for  the  individuals  that  compose  it. 
The  state  exists  for  the  citizen.  All  he  asks  of 
it  is  to  see  that  he  has  free  play.  This  is  the 
Anglo-Saxon  idea,  as  opposed  to  the  ancient  the- 
ory that  the  individual  exists  for  the  state. 

The  family  is  designed  to  develop  the  children, 
not  to  make  father  comfortable. 

The  object  of  business  is  primarily  to  serve  the 
general  public  with  honest  and  needed  goods  and 
to  give  employment  under  wholesome  conditions 
to  workers,  and  only  secondarily  to  fatten  the 
owner  with  huge  profits. 

Democracy  emphasizes  the  human  end  of  af- 
fairs. Autocracy  insists  on  the  mechanical  end. 

Democracy  aims  to  develop  the  people;  au- 
tocracy to  exploit  them. 

Hence  democracy  is  slow  because  it  is  a  princi- 
ple of  growth. 

It  is  so  much  easier  for  a  teacher  to  give  the 
child  a  sharp  command  and  enforce  it  with  a  stick; 
but  it  is  a  vicious  short  cut. 

It  is  a  long  way  round,  for  them  that  govern, 
to  enlighten,  explain,  and  educate.  But  it  is  the 
only  way. 

104 


The  object  of  all  government  is  to  improve  the 
quality  of  the  governed.  In  other  words,  it  is  to 
save  the  people,  not  to  rule  them. 

That  is  why  democracy  is  wholly  true  and  all 
absolutism  only  half  true,  and  hence  more  evil 
than  a  lie. 


105 


THE  BEST  ROOM 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  in  Illinois  every  house  had 
its  "best  room."  It  was  where  "company"  sat, 
ladies  who  came  to  call  dressed  up  in  their  best 
Sunday  clothes,  and  the  preacher  when  he  made 
his  regular  visit  and  prayed  with  the  family,  and 
the  lawyer  when  he  came  to  get  mother  to  sign 
papers,  and  the  book-agent  who  sold  us  "Mother, 
Home,  and  Heaven." 

The  children  were  not  allowed  in  there.  And 
really  they  never  wanted  to  go  in,  for  the  shades 
were  always  closely  drawn  at  the  windows,  the  air 
was  stuffy,  and  the  hair-cloth  sofa  and  chairs  were 
most  uncomfortable. 

There  was  an  album  on  the  marble-topped 
centre-table,  and  in  it  were  Uncle  Milt's  and  Aunt 
Hallie's  photographs.  An  engraving  of  Lincoln 
and  his  cabinet,  presented  as  a  prize  with  two 
years'  subscription  for  Godey's  Ladies  Book, 
adorned  the  wall,  and  by  its  side  hung  a  glass- 
covered  hair-wreath.  A  beautiful  ingrain  carpet 
covered  the  floor;  twice  a  year  it  was  taken  up 
and  the  hired  man  hung  it  over  the  clothes-line 
in  the  back  yard  and  pounded  it,  making  a  tre- 
mendous whirl  of  dust,  and  then  having  put  new 
straw  on  the  floor,  relaid  it. 

106 


The  room  was  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  house, 
and  nearly  useless. 

I  remember  well  the  time  I  went  over  to  stay  all 
night  with  Ralph  Matheny,  and  how  amazed  I 
was  to  see  the  whole  family  sitting  in  the  "par- 
lor," the  father  reading  the  newspaper  and  the 
boys  playing  checkers — right  in  the  company 
room! 

The  explanation  of  the  best  room  is  this:  It 
is  an  expression  of  the  desire  that  the  world  should 
know  us,  not  as  what  we  are,  but  as  what  we  are 
supposed  to  be. 

The  whole  struggle  for  "respectability"  may  be 
summed  up  as  an  instinctive  effort  to  conceal  our 
real  selves. 

Most  of  what  is  known  as  "society"  is  but  a 
rattle  and  mixture  of  respectabilities,  a  parade  of 
masks,  a  game  in  which  by  a  mutual  understanding 
each  plays  a  part. 

To  be  genuine,  frank,  and  real  is  to  be  coarse, 
ill-bred,  or  crude. 

The  "best  room"  idea  pervades  us.  What  is 
the  religion  of  most  of  us  but  a  "best  room"  af- 
fair, to  be  used  upon  occasions  and  not  for  the 
daily  warmth  of  living? 

With  how  many  of  your  acquaintances  have  you 
ever  gotten  farther  than  their  "best  room"?  With 
how  few  men  or  women  do  you  talk  with  whom 
you  feel  that  you  are  entering  freely  into  the  sit- 
ting-room, dining-room,  and  kitchen  of  their  mind ! 

107 


In  other  words  we  are  acquainted  with  many 
and  know  very  few. 

We  move  about,  suspicious  of  one  another, 
fencing  against  one  another,  interposing  conven- 
tional artificialities  between  our  real  selves  and 
others. 

And  what  a  comfort  to  meet  one  of  those  per- 
sons who  impress  you  as  genuine  through  and 
through,  with  no  dignity  to  defend,  no  fortress 
of  respectability  to  guard,  one  who  is  just  a  real 
man! 


108 


HOW  TO  BUILD  A  HOUSE 

THE  walls  of  a  house  are  not  built  of  wood, 
brick  or  stone,  but  of  truth  and  loyalty. 

Unpleasant  sounds,  the  friction  of  living,  the 
clash  of  personalities,  are  not  deadened  by  Persian 
rugs  or  polished  floors,  but  by  conciliation,  con- 
cession and  self-control. 

The  curtains  that  screen  the  household  gods 
from  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar  and  curious  are  not 
woven  of  lace,  but  of  discretion. 

The  food  of  the  home  is  not  meat  and  bread, 
but  thoughtfulness  and  unselfishness,  for  these 
keep  joy  alive. 

The  real  drink  is  not  wine  nor  water,  but  love 
itself,  which  is  the  only  known  thing  that  is  at 
once  a  food  and  an  intoxicant. 

The  bed  is  not  to  be  of  down  and  white  linen, 
but  of  "a  conscience  void  of  offense  toward  God 
and  toward  man." 

The  lighting  is  to  be  not  of  the  sun  by  day, 
or  by  electric  bulbs  by  night,  but  by  loyal  affection, 
shining  always  in  dear  eyes,  burning  always  in 
true  hearts. 

Your  home  is  not  where  you  lay  off  your  clothes, 
but  where  you  lay  off  your  cares. 

109 


The  cellar  of  your  house  is  not  to  be  filled  with 
apples  and  rare  vintage,  but  with  the  memory 
of  sacred  intimacies,  of  little  heroisms  unknown 
to  the  world,  of  sufferings  borne  nobly. 

In  the  attic  you  do  not  store  old  trunks  and  let- 
ters and  gowns,  but  you  keep  there  the  kisses,  say- 
ings, and  glances  that  cheered  you  when  you 
gathered  them  fresh,  and  are  now  a  sweet  sorrow 
when  dried  by  time. 

The  house  is  not  a  structure  where  bodies  meet, 
but  a  hearthstone  upon  which  flames  mingle,  sep- 
arate flames  of  souls,  which,  the  more  perfectly 
they  unite,  the  more  clearly  they  shine  and  the 
straighter  they  rise  toward  heaven. 

Your  house  is  your  fortress  in  a  warring 
world,  where  a  woman's  hand  buckles  on  your 
armor  at  morning  and  soothes  your  fatigue  and 
wounds  at  night. 

The  beauty  of  a  house  is  harmony. 

The  security  of  a  house  is  loyalty. 

The  joy  of  a  house  is  love. 

The  plenty  of  a  house  is  in  children. 

The  rule  of  a  house  is  service. 

The  comfort  of  a  house  is  in  contented  spirits. 

The  rats  and  mice  in  a  house  are  envy  and  sus- 
picion. 

The  maker  of  a  house,  of  a  real  human  house, 
is  God  himself,  the  same  who  made  the  stars  and 
built  the  world. 


no 


THE  CREED   OF  POWER 

COME,  say  this  with  me.  Let  us  join  hands, 
face  the  tempest,  and  repeat  our  creed,  the  Creed 
of  Power. 

I  am  backed  by  Power,  vast,  unconquerable, 
irresistible  Power. 

Suns  are  behind  me,  galaxies,  whirling  fire- 
mists. 

Great  winds,  oceans,  and  rivers  bear  me  on. 

Multitudes,  races,  nations,  the  numberless  mil- 
lions of  all  them  that  have  strived  bravely,  are 
in  my  blood. 

Revolutions,  martyrs,  victorious  rebellions  are 
back  of  me. 

I  am  backed  by  Power,  vast,  unconquerable, 
irresistible  Power. 

That  which  launched  my  personality  into  life's 
struggle  is  destiny.  No  one  can  resist  her.  She 
moves  through  the  swarms  of  men  as  the  ele- 
phant through  the  reeds  of  the  jungle.  Stand 
aside!  It  is  not  I  who  am  coming,  it  is  destiny 
advancing  me,  her  pawn. 

I  care  not  what  is  the  purpose  of  this  or  that 
in  the  world,  of  government,  institutions,  armies; 
nor  what  is  to  be  the  fate  of  America  or  Germany 

in 


or  Japan ;  nor  what  is  to  become  of  the  stars  and 
the  moon;  it  is  I,  I,  in  whom  are  concentred  the 
intentions  of  the  universe ;  the  universe  meant  for 
me  to  live,  to  love,  to  do,  and  to  triumph. 

It  is  for  me  to  keep  heart  and  keep  step,  to 
play  the  hero,  and  "having  done  all,  to  stand." 
So  doing,  I  sweep  all  before  me,  the  breath  of  the 
All  fills  my  sails,  the  muscle  of  the  All  swings  my 
battle-axe. 

I  am  I.  I  am  not  a  little  exclusive  I,  but  the 
great  inclusive,  allied  I.  If  this  is  egotism  it  is 
cosmic  egotism. 

It  is  the  play  of  the  stellar  electricity  in  my  soul. 

It  is  the  central  heat  of  the  planet  warming  my 
being. 

Behind  me,  bearing  me  on,  is  power.  This 
power  energizes  me,  it  is  within  me.  It  throbs 
like  a  locomotive,  it  hums  like  a  high-powered 
motor,  it  roars  dull  and  deep  as  a  blast-furnace. 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  night-watches,  a  rumble  as  of 
distant  thunder.  Nor  men,  nor  events,  nor  death, 
nor  the  machinations  of  the  devil  can  dismay  me. 
Worlds  mean  nothing  to  me.  Removed  from  this 
earth,  dead,  I  shall  expect  new  planets  as  foot- 
holds for  my  forces.  I  shall  not  be  disappointed. 
Nature  destroys  no  force;  she  only  changes  its 
mode  of  motion. 

This,  therefore,  is  my  creed.  I  look  into  my- 
self, and  if  I  find  in  me  any  goodness,  any  noble- 
ness, any  love,  any  upleaping  ambition  to  create,  I 
laugh,  for  these  things  are  fragments  of  super- 

112 


natural  radium,  of  everlastingly  outpouring 
power. 

I  have  learned  the  lesson  of  lessons.  It  is  never 
to  be  afraid  of  God. 

I  have  taken  this  power  idea  as  my  own.  I 
have  stripped  all  the  rags  and  trappings  of 
heathenism  from  it.  I  have  discovered  its  shat- 
tering stellar  beauty.  I  have  found  out  it  is  what 
men  call — God. 


A  CONSUMER'S  VIEWS  ON 
SALESMANSHIP 

I  AM  not  a  salesman.  But  I  am  a  good  buyer, 
and  have  probably  purchased  more  things  that  I 
did  not  want  than  any  man  of  my  age.  Hence,  it 
may  be  interesting  to  salesmen  to  listen  for  a  brief 
spell  to  a  consumer's  idea  of  what  constitutes  good 
salesmanship. 

First  of  all,  be  good-natured.  I  here  and  now 
confess  that  nine-tenths  of  what  induces  me  to 
buy  is  the  ability  of  the  seller  to  jolly  me  along. 
Cheerfulness  and  signs  that  you  feel  good,  enjoy 
life,  and  are  full  of  glee  inside,  are  better  than 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  Mr.  Rockefeller. 

Have  a  thorough  knowledge  of  your  goods, 
also  of  the  other  fellow's  goods.  Learn  how  they 
are  made  and  when,  and  who  makes  them.  Re- 
spect your  customer's  desire  to  know  and  fill  him 
up  with  information. 

Don't  argue.  State  facts.  Don't  arouse  op- 
position in  the  buyer's  mind.  Agree  with  him,  or 
dodge  the  issue.  Lead  him  around  to  some  sub- 
ject where  you  are  at  one.  I  hate  to  have  a  seller 
try  to  prove  to  me  I'm  wrong.  Perhaps  I  am; 
but  I  don't  like  to  admit  it. 

114 


Use  plain  language.  If  you  are  selling  automo- 
biles don't  talk  about  carburetors  and  recipro- 
cating dudads  and  compound  thingumbobs.  Go 
somewhere  and  learn  the  English  for  these  things, 
and  how  to  make  them  clear  to  a  washwoman. 
Never  use  a  term  when  there  is  any  doubt  whether 
the  customer  understands  it.  We  don't  like  to 
be  made  appear  ignorant. 

Tell  the  truth.  If  you  are  with  a  firm  where 
you  dare  not  tell  the  truth,  leave  it. 

Be  candid.  Do  not  conceal  things.  The  thing 
you  have  to  sell  has  certain  merits ;  it  ought  to  sell 
on  those.  To  sell  a  thing  upon  merits  it  does  not 
have  is  poor  policy. 

Be  dependable.  Even  if  you  make  a  casual  re- 
mark, for  instance,  that  you  will  send  a  man  a 
bunch  of  blotters  or  a  book  or  a  calendar,  don't 
fail  to  do  it.  Forgetting  is  almost  as  bad  as  lying. 
If  you  promise  to  come  back  next  Tuesday,  do 
it  or  send  a  telegram.  Create  the  impression  that 
you  will  keep  your  word  if  it  bankrupts  you. 

Remember  names  and  faces.  If  you  are  not 
gifted  in  this  respect,  get  a  little  book  and  every 
evening  set  down  the  names  of  the  people  you 
have  met  and  some  distinguishing  characteristic 
of  each  of  them.  Write  down  any  remarks  your 
customer  has  made  about  his  family.  Study  this. 
It's  all  a  part  of  the  important  art  of  jollying  us 
along. 

Have  a  good  appearance.  There  may  be  a  few 
people  left  who  like  to  see  a  dirty  shirt  and  frayed 


cuffs,  but  they  are  growing  scarcer  every  day. 

The  art  of  salesmanship  begins  in  the  mind. 
Think  success,  think  confidence,  think  a  thousand 
dollars.  Why  think  fifty  cents?  These  thoughts 
in  your  brain  will  ooze  out  of  your  face.  You 
will  radiate  these  qualities.  The  greatest  factor 
in  selling  is  personality.  And  personality  is  made 
by  thoughts. 

Avoid  personal  intimacies.  Let  me  talk  about 
myself  and  look  interested  while  I  am  expanding. 
But  don't  speak  of  yourself  any  more  than  you 
can  help.  Take  an  axe  and  chop  the  pronoun  "I" 
out  of  your  vocabulary.  What  do  you  care?  Jolly 
me  along. 

In  fine,  be  as  human  as  possible.  You  are  not 
a  catalogue  nor  a  printed  circular.  You  draw 
wages  because  you  are  supposed  to  be  a  human 
being.  Be  it!  Don't  be  huffy,  sensitive,  impa- 
tient, dictatorial,  indifferent,  egotistic,  or  mechani- 
cal. Be  a  good  fellow.  Be  the  kind  of  man  peo- 
ple like  to  have  around. 

When  you  attack  a  customer  aim  two  inches  be- 
low his  collar  bone.  If  you  can  make  him  like 
you  it  is  far  and  away  better  than  to  try  to  prove 
anything  to  his  mind.  Very  probably  he  hasn't 
much  mind  to  speak  of.  But  we  all  have  hearts. 


116 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  UNBORN  SOULS 

GOD,  listen  to  the  little  souls  unborn,  in  the 
anteroom  of  life,  for  we  cry  out  to  Thee  for  jus- 
tice. 

It  is  such  an  unfair  world  into  which  we  go, 
choked  with  inequities,  but  crudest  of  all  to  us. 

We  stand  to  take  our  turn,  we  whom  love  calls 
and  fate  names.  Alas !  we  are  rewarded  for  what 
we  have  not  done,  and  punished  for  that  wherein 
we  are  guiltless. 

Men  speak  loud  of  democracies.  Yet  upon  us, 
innocent,  crushes  the  hardest  heel  of  privilege  and 
whimsy  tyranny.  For  by  the  laws  of  inheritance 
one  enters  upon  the  control  of  millions,  and  an- 
other is  damned  into  the  slums. 

God,  make  men  give  us  a  fair  chance.  Make 
them  give  the  justice  of  democracy  to  the  chil- 
dren, even  as  there  is  at  last  the  equality  of 
democracy  among  the  dead. 

They  who  sit  in  high  courts,  wear  wigs  and 
gowns  and  write  learned  laws,  speak  of  the  rights 
of  citizens,  of  property  and  of  nations ;  work  upon 
their  minds,  O  Almighty  Spirit  of  Equity,  to  give 
all  little  children  a  fair  start. 

Make  them  multiply  their  schools  until  the  last 
117 


child  has  his  right,  the  right  of  a  due  training  for 
life.  Make  them  change  their  teachers  so  that 
they  shall  develop  what  efficiency  Thou  hast  cre- 
ated in  us,  and  not  force  us  into  the  hard  moulds 
of  their  artificial  systems. 

Make  them  tear  down  some  of  their  dark,  high 
blocks  of  buildings  and  leave  clear  spaces  in  their 
cities  for  children  to  play  and  have  room  for 
laughter. 

Thou  preparest  nests  for  the  young  of  birds, 
and  the  lion's  whelps  are  nurtured  with  jealous 
care.  Send  us  not  where  we  are  not  wanted.  It 
is  for  this  that  some  of  us  are  weeping,  because 
we  do  not  want  to  go  where  there  is  no  love  and 
welcome. 

Make  men  see  there  are  enough  of  them,  grown 
and  strong,  to  do  the  world's  work,  so  that  they 
may  drive  no  children  to  toil. 

We  go  each  to  his  place.  We  do  not  impeach 
Thy  wisdom.  Perhaps,  after  the  episode  of  life, 
we  shall  understand  each  why  he  was  sent  where 
he  was  sent.  But  the  world,  with  its  inheritances, 
its  vested  rights,  its  boast  of  equal  opportunity  to 
all,  yet  with  its  cruel  absolutism  toward  us,  seems 
a  fearful  place. 

Therefore  listen!  O  people  of  earth,  to  the 
voice  of  us,  the  unborn  in  the  anteroom  of  life, 
crying  out  to  God  against  you  for  justice  1 


118 


AMBASSADORS 

THE  theory  of  embassy  is  that  a  nation  shall 
have  some  man  to  represent  it  in  foreign  courts. 

Time  was  when  this  was  necessary.  The  seats 
of  national  government  were  many  days  apart. 
The  fastest  horsemen  were  often  too  slow  to  con- 
stitute reliable  means  of  communication  in  a  crisis. 
Then  it  was  useful  to  have  a  man  in  a  foreign 
court  who  was  authorized  to  speak  for  his  coun- 
try. 

That  time  has  passed.  The  electric  telegraph 
encircles  the  globe.  We  can  shake  hands  with, 
or  slap  the  face  of  Russia  or  Spain  in  a  few  min- 
utes. During  the  last  century  the  governments 
of  the  world  have  moved  up  close  to  each  other. 
The  expess  trains,  ocean  liners,  submarine  cables 
and  wireless  telegraphy  have  put  Pekin  and  Lon- 
don in  adjoining  rooms.  The  necessity  for  am- 
bassadors exists  no  more. 

The  only  reason  we  keep  them  is  the  same  rea- 
son that  keeps  the  world  doing  things  long  after 
they  have  ceased  to  have  a  reason.  It  is  the  in- 
ertia of  history.  It  is  that  dead  hand  of  the  past 
whose  clutch  it  is  so  difficult  to  escape. 

119 


We  have  ambassadors  simply  because  we  al- 
ways have  had  them.  That  is  all. 

Formerly  the  group  of  foreign  ministers  at  a 
court  decided  issues.  To-day  no  move  will  be 
made  by  our  representative  at  Madrid  or  Rome 
except  upon  direct  instructions  from  Washington. 

All  the  necessary  business  of  the  American  gov- 
ernment at  London  could  be  transacted  by  a  ca- 
pable clerk  and  a  few  assistants.  And  much  better 
than  by  a  "statesman." 

The  social  life,  the  giving  of  expensive  enter- 
tainments, the  spread  and  splurge  and  high  step- 
ping, by  which  the  women  folks  of  American  mil- 
lionaires are  given  an  opportunity  to  satisfy  their 
social  ambitions,  are  no  part  of  a  government's 
business,  nor  of  the  business  of  its  ambassador. 

All  our  ambassadorial  trouble  comes  from  our 
representative's  imagining  that  it  is  his  duty  to 
break  into  foreign  "society."  It  is  this,  and  this 
alone,  that  is  ground  for  the  saying  that  $17,500 
is  not  enough  to  live  on. 

Foreign  embassies  belong  to  the  same  category 
as  inaugural  balls.  President  Wilson  discarded 
the  one ;  congress  ought  to  discard  the  other. 

There  is  no  imaginable  business  of  importance 
at  a  foreign  court  that  cannot  be  transacted  from 
Washington ;  except  perhaps  in  certain  crises  when 
it  might  be  necessary  to  send  a  special  minister. 

Let  us  get  rid  of  the  whole  mediaeval  business. 
The  plots  and  whisperings  and  secret  alliances  of 
European  courts  we  have  nothing  to  do  with.  The 

120 


United  States  can  afford  to  lay  its  cards  all  on  the 
table. 

Affairs  of  state  managed  by  side-stepping  and 
mysterious  diplomats  mean  misunderstandings, 
treacheries,  and  wars ;  if  they  were  managed  in  the 
open  we  should  all  fare  better. 

We  are  supposed  to  be  a  plain  common-sense 
people,  intent  upon  minding  our  own  business, 
maintaining  our  rights,  and  seeing  that  no  nation 
treads  on  the  tail  of  our  coat.  Let  us  carry  on 
our  business  as  simply  and  sensibly  as  a  corpora- 
tion carries  on  its  business. 


121 


THE  JONESNESS  OF  JONES 

A  MAN  can  never  get  away  from  what  he  is. 

If  he  is  John  Jones,  he  can  become  better,  but 
he  will  only  be  a  better  John  Jones ;  he  can  grow 
wiser,  stronger,  weaker,  wickeder,  but  he  will  still 
remain  John  Jones.  His  John  Jonesishness  is  the 
one  quality  he  can  never  lose.  Perhaps ! 

The  little  baby  John  is  born  to  the  Jones  family. 
Great  plans  are  laid  for  him  by  Mother  Jones, 
Father  Jones,  and  the  Jones  uncles  and  aunts. 
Meanwhile  there  is  a  secret  plan  in  baby  Jones's 
blood  that  is  going  to  be  carried  out.  Destiny 
meant  a  certain  particular  kind  of  thing  when  it 
put  forth  that  baby  among  the  living,  and  destiny 
has  a  way  of  sticking  to  its  purpose  to  the  end. 

Very  often  when  the  blood-plan  does  not  coin- 
cide with  the  plans  of  Papa  and  Mamma  Jones, 
young  John  is  called  perverse,  obdurate,  hopeless. 

Those  who  have  the  greatest  success  with  their 
children  are  they  who  first  carefully  find  out  the 
John  Jonesness  of  the  young  John  Jones  and  try 
to  develop  that.  Many  a  family  tragedy  is  due 
to  their  endeavoring  with  prayers  and  tears  to 
make  him  be  a  Smith. 

There  are  no  black  sheep ;  these  are  merely  mis- 
122 


understood  John  Joneses  appearing  in  families 
that  are  obsessed  by  Smithism. 

There  are  no  naughty  and  wayward  pupils  in 
schools;  these  are  they  whom  incompetent  teach- 
ers cannot  comprehend,  or  overworked  teachers 
have  no  time  to  study  and  guide. 

There  are  no  criminals;  these  are  they  whom 
society  has  misplaced,  John  Joneses  who  are  un- 
able to  be  Smiths.  They  are  warped,  twisted,  per- 
verted personalities. 

John  by  nature  selects  certain  Jones  qualities 
from  his  family. 

When  he  goes  to  school  his  personality  extracts 
certain  food  from  books,  teacher,  and  school- 
mates ;  he  and  the  Smith  boy  grow  up  to  be  differ- 
ent, as  a  rose  bush  and  a  lily  bulb  taking  nourish- 
ment from  the  same  soil  produce  one  a  red,  the 
other  a  white  flower. 

Though  Jones  has  the  same  experiences  as  all 
others  in  his  calling,  yet  his  business  career,  his 
domestic  relationship,  and  all  his  environment  be- 
come in  him  nothing  but  Jonesness. 

All  a  man  is,  does,  and  says  is  tinged,  dyed,  and 
saturated  with  his  being,  his  own  individuality,  his 
peculiar  organization. 

Plato  held  that  all  knowledge  is  remembrance; 
modern  biology  says  much  the  same  thing  in  a 
different  way. 

"Nature,"  says  a  recent  writer,  "has  first  to 
produce  the  kernel,  the  shell  is  a  later  excrescence ; 
the  body  must  be  born  before  it  can  be  clothed; 

123 


the  hero's  heart  must  beat  before  heroic  deeds  can 
be  achieved." 

The  only  real  greatness  lies  in  the  degree  to 
which  one  has  developed  his  own  peculiar  per- 
sonality. The  greatness  that  consists  in  imitating 
others  is  second  rate. 

"Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the  body 
than  raiment?"  means  uls  not  John  Jones  more 
than  anything  that  may  happen  to  him?" 

And  what  shall  it  profit  John  Jones  if  he  gains 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  John  Jonesness  ? 


124 


THE   DEATH   OF  WONDER  IS  THE 
END  OF  LIFE 

SOME  one  shrewdly  said  that  a  molecule  solves 
a  problem  of  higher  mathematics  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  while  it  would  take  a  learned  pro- 
fessor a  year. 

All  around  us  Nature  is  modestly  working  in- 
describable miracles  of  skill.  The  mind  of  man 
has  never  touched  more  than  the  fringe  of  her 
garment. 

The  commonest  human  life  is  led  in  the  midst 
of  a  stupendous  factory  where  organisms  more 
wonderful  than  a  Strasburg  clock  or  a  Hoe  print- 
ing press  are  turned  out  every  minute ;  in  a  labora- 
tory where,  with  a  fecundity  that  is  infinite  and 
ceaseless,  organisms  are  constantly  constructed 
that  no  human  craft  has  ever  been  able  to  imitate. 

Automobiles  are  amazing  proofs  of  man's  in- 
genuity, but  a  human  foot  is  more  complex  and 
baffling  than  they. 

As  you  sit  on  a  bench  in  the  park  in  the  spring 
you  see  the  young  grass  growing  up.  You  say  it 
"grows."  Did  you  ever  reflect  what  a  vast  word 
that  is  ?  Grows !  All  over  the  earth  trillions  upon 

125 


trillions  of  little  seeds  are  bursting  and  sending 
up  green  stalks ;  and  no  man  was  ever  able  to  con- 
trive a  thing  that  would  grow. 

We  can  make  piano  players,  phonographs  and 
all  manner  of  cunning  electric  machines,  but  we  can 
make  no  machine  that  will  "live,"  that  will  auto- 
matically draw  its  sustenance  from  earth,  regulate 
itself,  and  reproduce  itself. 

Yet  there  are  people  who  are  bored.  There 
are  people  who  live  in  this  miracle-crowded  world 
and  are  tired  of  it  all.  They  must  have  fevered 
amusements,  intoxications,  perversions  to  prick 
the  jaded  love  of  life.  That  is  because  their  souls 
are  dead. 

Souls  die  by  starvation.  That  which  feeds  souls, 
keeps  them  alive,  young  and  fresh,  is — wonder. 

When  one  ceases  to  wonder  and  begins  to  think 
he  knows,  paralysis  and  death  are  not  far  off. 
They  become  blase,  world-weary.  And  when  the 
soul  shrivels  up  the  mind  hates  itself  and  flies 
to  the  body  for  drunkenness. 

The  clouds,  look  at  them!  What  holds  them 
up,  herds  them,  drives  them  in  the  racing  storm 
or  pastures  them  golden-clothed  in  the  silent  west? 

What  is  electricity?  We  use  it,  but  we  know 
what  is  no  more  than  did  Adam.  It  is  a  giant 
spirit,  strange,  strong,  evasive,  formless. 

The  soul  of  the  Persian  who  worshipped  the 
sun  was  nearer  alive  than  that  of  the  scientist  who, 
because  he  has  a  spectrum-analysis,  has  lost  sur- 
prise. 

126 


All  our  science,  said  Carlyle,  swims  as  a  scum 
upon  the  boundless  ocean  of  nescience. 

We  build  little  walls  of  wisdom  to  keep  away 
the  vast  unknown.  Wherein  we  mutter  and  drivel. 

Woe  to  the  man  that  does  not  feel  the  infinite, 
the  soul  from  whom  awe  has  departed,  in  whom 
wonder  is  extinct,  wonder  at  the  continuous  play 
of  miracle  and  mystery  that  surround  life.  The 
best  of  little  children  is  that  they  wonder;  and  ex- 
cept ye  become  like  them  ye  shall  not  see. 

Do  you  say  the  age  of  miracles  is  past?  The 
marvels  of  the  Old  Testament  are  small  com- 
pared with  the  shattering  revelations  of  the  spec- 
troscope, the  spinthariscope,  Crookes's  tube,  and 
the  electrometer,  to  say  nothing  of  the  microscope 
and  the  telescope.  Madame  Curie's  bit  of  radium, 
shedding  power  unceasingly  into  space,  is  more 
striking  than  Moses's  marching  pillars  of  cloud 
and  fire. 

And  we  who  dwell  in  a  continuous  creation,  and 
under  the  shine  of  galaxies,  cannot  wonder! 


127 


THUNDER  OF  THE  MODERN 
CONSCIENCE 

THIS  that  I  call  me  is  made  up  of  many  in- 
gredients. 

First,  there  is  earth,  dust,  matter,  which  I  hold 
in  common  with  stones,  seas,  stars,  and  material 
substance  in  general. 

Then  there  is  my  living  organism;  in  this  I  am 
akin  to  all  plants  in  meadow,  mountain,  and  river- 
bed. 

Another  part  of  me  is  animal,  wherein  I  am 
brother  to  all  birds,  fishes,  insects,  and  other  ani- 
mal life. 

Then  comes  my  human  element,  in  which  pos- 
session I  am  partner  with  the  whole  human  race. 
All  who  have  died,  from  Adam  to  my  parents, 
have  poured  this  quality  into  me ;  all  who  now  live 
constitute  a  huge  body  of  which  I  am  a  small  mem- 
ber. 

A  large  part  of  me  is  English,  a  part  is  Amer- 
ican, a  part  comes  from  my  own  family  stock,  a 
part  is  created  by  the  influence  of  all  I  meet. 

When  I  get  down  to  that  portion  which  is  dis- 
tinctively me  and  nobody  else,  it  is  extremely  small. 

128 


It  is  what  the  taste  is  to  the  apple,  the  perfume 
is  to  the  flower,  the  Correggiosity  is  to  a  work 
of  Correggio,  the  style  is  to  an  author's  words. 

This  being  the  case,  if  you  wish  to  "save"  or  to 
"reform"  me,  you  have  a  large  and  interesting 
contract  on  your  hands. 

To  change  the  apple  you  must  not  only  alter 
the  flavor  a  bit,  but  you  must  make  different  the 
tree,  the  garden,  the  country,  and  the  climate. 

To  reform  me  in  any  way  that  will  insure  that 
I  stay  reformed,  you  have  to  reform  the  folks  I 
belong  to,  the  city  I  live  in,  the  books  I  read,  the 
friends  I  play  with,  together  with  my  state,  na- 
tion, race,  and  the  whole  human  family.  We  will 
excuse  you  from  reforming  animal  and  plant  life 
and  the  nature  of  the  soil,  for  the  present. 

For  many  centuries  those  who  wanted  to  make 
men  better  have  pounded  away  at  the  individual. 
For  ages  the  church  was  possessed  of  the  idea  that 
the  larger  me — that  is  to  say,  the  state,  or  man- 
kind at  large,  was  doomed;  it  was  non-salvable, 
and  the  best  the  savers  could  do  was  to  pluck  a 
few  "brands  from  the  burning."  Humanity  was 
a  goner;  a  few  might  be  rescued  as  the  elect. 

It  has  been  discovered  that  this  sort  of  saving 
does  not  save.  To  secure  a  good,  honest,  upright, 
and  noble  man  we  have  to  begin  with  great-grand- 
parents, and  to  include  society  at  large. 

The  benevolence  that  gives  a  beggar  a  quarter 
has  become  suspected.  To  be  real  benevolence  it 
must  alter  the  conditions  that  make  beggars. 

129 


To  imprison  grafting  police  and  to  rescue  fallen 
women  here  and  there  seem  to  do  little  good ;  more 
and  more  you  hear  the  saying,  "It  is  the  system 
that  is  wrong." 

The  conscience  of  the  world  is  deepening.  It 
is  enlarging  to  embrace  the  larger  me. 

We  are  not  losing  faith;  we  are  discovering 
that  to  help  people  permanently  it  takes  more 
faith  than  we  ever  dreamed  of. 

We  can  no  longer  go  on  in  "the  good  old  way," 
rescuing  individuals  and  calling  social,  business, 
and  government  conditions  "the  will  of  God." 
We  are  waking  to  the  conviction  that  we  can  and 
we  must  bring  those  conditions  up  to  conform 
with  justice  and  humaneness. 

There  is  a  new  note  in  the  thunder  of  the  mod- 
ern conscience.  It  no  more  says  we  must  rescue 
the  fallen,  feed  the  hungry,  and  give  alms  to  the 
poor;  it  declares  that  we  must  prevent  crim~,  hun- 
ger, and  poverty. 

The  cry  of  ancient  Rome  was  that  the  barbari- 
ans must  be  destroyed;  the  cry  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion is  that  there  must  be  no  more  barbarians. 


130 


THE   DEVIL 

THERE  was  recently  given  in  New  York,  in  a 
Broadway  theatre,  a  moving-picture  show  repre- 
senting the  Devil.  The  series  of  scenes  showed 
the  activities  of  Satan  throughout  history;  it  was 
conventional,  made  up  of  incidents  from  Milton's 
"Paradise  Lost,"  Klopstock's  "Messiah"  and 
medieval  tales,  and  old  Nick  was  impersonated 
by  an  actor  who  wriggled  and  twisted  and  leered 
in  the  most  orthodox  style. 

But  that  is  not  the  correct  idea  of  the  Devil. 
The  Devil  is  the  name  given  to  that  power  that 
ruins  men;  he  is  the  adversary,  the  being  who 
works  against  men's  welfare. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  who  he  is.  The  best  name 
for  him  is  the  one  he  gave  himself  upon  one  occa- 
sion where  he  said,  "My  name  is  Legion."  That 
is  to  say,  he  is  the  destructive  influence  of  the 
many. 

There  is  but  one  God;  the  Devil's  name  is 
Legion.  Put  into  plain  English  this  means  that 
if  one  looks  about  him  and  gets  his  ideals  from, 
and  regulates  his  conduct  by,  the  general  crowd, 
there  is  no  hope  for  him.  It  is  only  by  looking 


within  and  following  one's  own  convictions  that 
one  can  develop  into  normal  manhood. 

Whoever  is  satisfied  to  do  just  as  well  as  the 
average  is  going  to  the  Devil. 

Ask  any  man  who  employs  a  number  of  work- 
ers what  his  greatest  trial  is,  and  he  will  tell  you 
it  is  to  get  men  to  do  what  they  are  paid  for  doing. 
The  majority  of  workers  have  to  be  watched,  en- 
couraged, and  their  work  patched  up. 

Any  banker  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  rare  clerk 
who  does  precisely  what  he  is  supposed  to  do. 

Office  men  do  not  ask  for  stenographers  who 
are  talented,  but  only  those  who  will  do  their  work 
with  care  and  accuracy  and  speed. 

When  a  boy  goes  to  school  and  does  simply  the 
things  which  a  school  boy  ought  to  do,  when  he 
gets  his  lessons  and  is  punctual  and  well-behaved, 
he  is  called  a  superior  child.  Every  teacher 
knows  that  nine-tenths  of  the  pupils  do  not  ex- 
pect to  measure  up  to  the  mark.  In  fact,  the  child 
who  does  this  is  called  a  "shark"  or  a  "grub" 
or  a  "sissy"  or  some  other  term  of  derision. 

Even  so  with  teachers  themselves.  I  presume  I 
have  had  a  hundred  teachers  in  my  youth,  and  of 
them  all  I  can  recall  just  two  who  had  any  busi- 
ness to  be  teaching.  They  taught,  really  helped, 
and  inspired  me;  the  others  were  holding  their 
jobs. 

Most  actors  are  poor;  when  one  is  good,  or 
what  every  actor  ought  to  be,  we  call  him  a  genius. 

Most  preachers  are  boresome.  When  one 
132 


speaks  with  inspiring  power,  as  every  preacher 
should  do,  we  say  he  is  wonderfully  gifted. 

Most  grocers  are  inefficient,  most  barbers  don't 
know  how  to  shave  you,  most  hired  girls  are  not 
what  you  want,  most  carpenters,  masons  and 
house  painters  are  not  to  be  relied  on,  most  news- 
papers are  not  satisfactory,  most  lawyers  disap- 
point you,  most  doctors  do  not  understand  how  to 
doctor  their  patients  and  most  mothers  do  not 
know  how  to  mother  their  children. 

The  work  of  the  world  is  carried  on  by  ineffi- 
cient people.  The  efficient  person  is  one  of  a 
hundred. 

I  do  not  refer  to  persons  of  genius  or  of  great 
gifts  or  talent,  but  merely  to  those  who  do,  simply 
and  as  a  matter  of  course,  what  they  are  paid  to 
do,  what  is  their  duty  to  do. 

A  man,  therefore,  that  gauges  himself  by  the 
crowd  is  deficient.  If  his  conscience  is  content 
with  the  standard  of  those  around  him  it  is  a 
crooked  conscience. 

Almost  every  embezzler,  bribe-taker  or  other 
crook  has  become  a  crook  by  saying  to  himself, 
"They  all  do  it." 

A  man  gets  into  politics,  finds  corruption  all 
around  him,  goes  with  the  mass,  and  becomes  a 
scoundrel. 

Girls  go  to  shame,  and  boys  to  drunkenness, 
because  other  girls  and  boys  do. 

Cussedness,  incompetence,  laziness,  and  all  man- 
ner of  crime  and  moral  weakness  are  sociable. 

133 


INFINITY 

WE  cannot  comprehend  infinity,  we  can  only 
label  it.  The  mathematicians  indicate  it  by  the 
figure  8  turned  over  on  its  side. 

You  can  stand  on  the  shore  of  the  ocean  and 
see  a  limited  circle  of  the  waters,  you  know  those 
waters  stretch  out  league  upon  league  in  the  dis- 
tance, they  lave  shores  thousands  of  miles  away, 
they  are  filled  with  sea  monsters,  they  bear  myriad 
sails;  these  things  are  present  in  your  imagination, 
but  they  are  too  great  for  you  to  grasp,  and  so  you 
label  them  with  the  word  "Sea." 

About  every  human  being  there  is  something 
mysterious,  deep,  high,  full  of  mystery;  you  do  not 
understand  it,  and  you  call  it  "Soul." 

In  the  human  being  is  a  curious  spiritual  machin- 
ery in  which  words,  visions,  and  impressions  are 
stored,  in  which  thoughts  are  woven,  in  which 
plans  are  made,  in  which  the  strange  processes  of 
logic  are  carried  on;  you  do  not  understand  this, 
and  you  label  it  "Mind." 

Back  of  you  is  the  record  of  the  human  race, 
the  millions  who  have  strived,  hoped,  and  died, 
kingdoms  that  have  risen  and  fallen;  it  is  all  too 
great  for  you  to  comprehend  and  so  you  label  it 
"History." 

134 


The  infinite  imposes  itself  upon  us  even  in  small 
things.  If  you  undertake  to  get  the  square  root 
of  2  you  find  it  runs  into  a  decimal  that  never 
stops ;  you  could  continue  that  decimal  forever  and 
ever  and  the  numbers  would  go  on  without  cease. 

When  we  speak  the  word  "Time"  we  are  con- 
ceiving a  small  slice  of  infinity,  for  time  has  no 
beginning,  no  end.  When  we  think  the  word 
"Space"  we  entertain  another  thought  which  has 
no  bounds. 

A  part  of  the  ancient  city  of  Babylon  has  been 
uncovered,  we  gaze  upon  its  ghastly  ruins.  Once 
Babylon  was  as  busy  as  London.  All  its  life  of 
activity  has  receded  to  a  diminishing  point  in  the 
past.  It  has  been  swallowed  up  in  infinity  as  Lon- 
don will  be  swallowed  up. 

Infinity  is  depressing,  paralyzing,  confusing;  it 
is  madness.  We  must  turn  from  it  and  shut  it  out 
of  our  thought  else  we  cannot  think.  For  pur- 
poses of  action  we  must  assume  it  does  not.  exist, 
though  it  does  exist.  We  close  our  eyes  to  it,  still 
it  is  there. 

Infinity  is  a  spiritual  presence.  It  operates  upon 
all  minds.  It  is  the  pressure  of  the  infinite  that 
drives  the  sensualist  to  say,  "Eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die."  Its  influence  upon 
another  type  of  mind  drives  the  man  to  religion. 

Institutions  are  shelters  against  the  infinite. 
Such  are  the  home,  the  church,  and  all  housings 
of  men's  bodies  and  souls.  In  them  we  huddle  to- 
gether for  fear  of  this  unknown  thing. 

135 


Out  of  the  infinite  come  all  things — the  souls 
and  bodies  of  men,  the  plants  and  animals,  the 
galaxies  of  stars.  Into  it  again  pour  all  things, 
for  at  least  infinity  swallows  all.  Visible  things 
are  but  a  shudder  of  the  infinite,  a  passing  dream 
of  eternity. 

We  see  the  infinite  everywhere.  We  see  it  when 
we  look  at  the  sky,  as  in  a  picture.  We  hear  it 
when  the  clock  strikes,  marking  the  passage  of  its 
stream.  We  touch  it  when  we  pray  to  God.  We 
feel  it  when  we  witness  death.  It  brushes  by  us 
in  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven,  in  the  marbles 
of  Michelangelo. 

We  are  here  but  a  few  days.  We  cling  pas- 
sionately to  love,  which  seems  to  be  the  one  in- 
finite factor  in  human  life.  Clasping  the  hand  of 
love  at  last  we  go 

Into  the  ghostliness, 
The  infinite  and  abounding  solitudes, 
Beyond — O,  beyond !  beyond  .  .  . 


136 


BOY  WANTED 

WANTED — A  boy  that  stands  straight,  sits 
straight,  acts  straight,  and  talks  straight; 

A  boy  whose  finger  nails  are  not  in  mourning, 
whose  ears  are  clean,  whose  shoes  are  polished, 
whose  clothes  are  brushed,  whose  hair  is  combed, 
and  whose  teeth  are  well  cared  for; 

A  boy  who  listens  carefully  when  he  is  spoken 
to,  who  asks  questions  when  he  does  not  under- 
stand, and  does  not  ask  questions  about  things  that 
are  none  of  his  business; 

A  boy  that  moves  quickly  and  makes  as  little 
noise  about  it  as  possible ; 

A  boy  who  whistles  in  the  street,  but  does  not 
whistle  where  he  ought  to  keep  still ; 

A  boy  who  looks  cheerful,  has  a  ready  smile 
for  everybody,  and  never  sulks ; 

A  boy  who  is  polite  to  every  man  and  respectful 
to  every  woman  and  girl; 

A  boy  who  does  not  smoke  cigarettes  and  has 
no  desire  to  learn  how; 

A  boy  who  is  more  eager  to  know  how  to  speak 
good  English  than  to  talk  slang; 

A  boy  that  never  bullies  other  boys  nor  allows 
other  boys  to  bully  him ; 

137 


A  boy  who,  when  he  does  not  know  a  thing, 
says  "I  don't  know,"  and  when  he  has  made  a 
mistake  says  "I'm  sorry,"  and  when  he  is  asked 
to  do  a  thing  says,  "I'll  try" ; 

A  boy  who  looks  you  right  in  the  eye  and  tells 
the  truth  every  time ; 

A  boy  who  is  eager  to  read  good  books ; 

A  boy  who  would  rather  put  in  his  spare  time  at 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  gymnasium  than  to  gamble  for 
pennies  in  a  back  room ; 

A  boy  who  does  not  want  to  be  "smart"  nor  in 
any  wise  to  attract  attention ; 

A  boy  who  would  rather  lose  his  job  or  be  ex- 
pelled from  school  than  to  tell  a  lie  or  be  a  cad; 

A  boy  whom  other  boys  like; 

A  boy  who  is  at  ease  in  the  company  of  girls; 

A  boy  who  is  not  sorry  for  himself,  and  not 
forever  thinking  and  talking  about  himself; 

A  boy  who  is  friendly  with  his  mother,  and 
more  intimate  with  her  than  any  one  else ; 

A  boy  who  makes  you  feel  good  when  he  is 
around ; 

A  boy  who  is  not  goody-goody,  a  prig,  or  a 
little  Pharisee,  but  just  healthy,  happy,  and  full 
of  life. 

This  boy  is  wanted  everywhere.  The  family 
wants  him,  the  school  wants  him,  the  office  wants 
him,  the  boys  want  him,  the  girls  want  him,  all 
creation  wants  him. 


138 


THE  GHOST  SHIP 

AT  the  foot  of  Seventy-ninth  Street  in  New 
York  City,  in  the  still  waters  of  the  Hudson,  there 
lay  on  exhibition  the  oldest  ship  in  the  world, 
the  convict  ship  Success. 

It  is  a  ghost.  It  comes  upon  the  imagination  as 
the  toothless,  clawless  spectre  of  the  past,  that 
grim  mother  whose  progeny  still  paralyzes  the 
present  and  clogs  the  future. 

In  this  ship  England  once  sent  her  criminals 
to  the  Australian  penal  colonies.  It  is  all  sweet 
and  clean  now;  mothers  lead  their  children  to 
peer  into  its  cells  occupied  by  wax  figures.  An 
enterprising  manager  has  fitted  it  up  as  an  exhi- 
bition, has  shown  it  in  England  and  now  brings 
it  to  America. 

It  is  a  ghost,  the  ghost  of  an  idea  that,  although 
dead  and  damned,  still  infests  men's  minds,  the 
idea  that  punishment  abates  crime. 

Here  you  see  punishment  raised  to  its  highest 
power.  The  record  of  the  cruelties  here  prac- 
tised by  the  English  people  is  so  frightful  that  no 
one  can  be  blamed  for  not  believing  it;  the  truth 
is  more  incredible  than  the  wildest  fiction.  It  is 
impossible  to  believe  the  story,  yet  it  is  perfectly 
authentic. 

139 


In  cells  about  five  by  six  feet  square,  without 
light  and  with  little  air,  four  or  five  human  beings 
were  chained,  their  filth  cleaned  out  but  twice  a 
week,  their  bodies  racked  by  the  tossing  of  the 
vessel.  They  were  flogged  upon  the  least  occa- 
sion, their  raw  wounds  were  washed  with  salt  sea 
water.  Every  devilish  ingenuity  was  employed 
to  make  their  existence  a  hell. 

It  is  not  a  hundred  years  ago  that  over  145 
offenses  in  England  were  punishable  by  death. 
The  hangmen  were  kept  so  busy  that  convict  ships 
were  invented  as  being  more  terrible  than  death. 
Women  and  children  were  sentenced  to  transpor- 
tation for  stealing  a  four-cent  pie  or  a  square  of 
bleached  linen.  The  world,  ostensibly  worship- 
ping Christ  in  majestic  cathedrals,  in  practice  out- 
did the  devil  in  hideous  inhumanity. 

Perhaps  the  most  appealing  thing  to  be  seen 
in  this  ghost  ship  is  the  cells  and  waxen  present- 
ment of  "The  Six  Men  of  Dorset." 

Born  in  1804,  George  Lovelace  became  a  farm 
laborer.  He  got  $1.75  a  week.  Anxious  to  bet- 
ter the  condition  of  himself  and  his  fellows,  he 
organized  a  "Laborers'  Society"  to  secure  25 
cents  increase.  There  were  six  members  of  this 
pioneer  trades  union,  the  famous  "Six  Men  of 
Dorset,"  whose  names  should  be  dear  to  every 
workingman  to-day  struggling  for  his  rights;  they 
were  George  and  James  Lovelace,  James  Ham- 
mett,  Thomas  Stanfield,  James  Brine,  and  one 
named  Clark. 

140 


When  they  presented  humbly  their  requests  the 
landowners  and  farmers  made  reply  that  from 
$1.75  their  wages  would  be  henceforth  reduced 
to  $1.50  to  teach  them  a  lesson;  and,  furthermore, 
if  they  complained  again  they  would  be  arrested 
for  conspiracy.  A  proclamation  was  issued 
threatening  "to  punish  any  man  with  seven  years' 
transportation  who  joined  a  trade  society."  The 
"six  men"  were  duly  sentenced  to  seven  years' 
transportation  in  Van  Diemens  Land.  They 
served  three  years  in  the  hell  ship  Success  and  in 
the  chain  gangs  of  Australia  before  the  British 
conscience  awoke,  and,  after  great  popular  upris- 
ings, they  were  pardoned. 

Out  of  the  past  this  ghost  ship  sails  to  us.  Its 
solid  oak  we  can  touch.  Its  rusty  iron  manacles 
are  all  too  tangible.  Its  hideous  cells  our  feet 
may  explore.  Its  appalling  record  books  and 
documents  we  can  see  with  our  own  eyes.  Yet  it 
is  not  true.  It  cannot  be  true.  It  is  more  mon- 
strous than  fiction. 

God!  to  think  that  people  of  English  blood 
could  ever  have  held  theories  of  life  and  of  so- 
ciety in  which  such  things  were  possible !  And  to 
think  that  even  to-day  there  are  those  who  still 
cry  "Punish!  punish!"  while  over  all  the  great 
Christ  repeats  his  two  thousand  year  old  message, 
"Heal!  Help!  Cure!" 


141 


HONOR 

IN  order  to  understand,  you  must  learn  that 
many  words,  and  especially  words  that  stand  for 
very  high  and  important  ideas,  usually  have  two 
meanings,  which  are  often  directly  opposite  one 
to  the  other. 

Love,  for  instance,  may  signify  the  very  loftiest 
sentiment  conceivable,  even,  as  the  theologians  tell 
us,  for  the  nature  of  the  godhead;  and,  again,  it 
may  be  used  to  indicate  the  most  unintelligent 
desire. 

One  of  these  words  with  a  dual  meaning  is 
"honor." 

There  is  hardly  a  feeling  in  the  human  breast 
as  praiseworthy  as  honor.  It  is  the  best  form  of 
self-respect.  It  is  manliness  or  womanliness 
raised  to  the  nth  power.  It  is  character  consum- 
mate. It  is  the  true  foundation  of  business  suc- 
cess, the  basis  of  any  happy  marriage,  and,  alto- 
gether, the  cleanest,  brightest,  and  solidest  moral 
metal  in  the  spirit  of  man. 

Naturally,  so  good  a  thing  must  be  stolen  by 
scoundrels  for  their  counterfeit  schemes.  So  we 
find  some  of  the  meanest,  most  selfish  and  caddish 
sentiments  labelled  "honor." 

142 


The  duelling  place  was  called  "the  field  of 
honor,"  where  two  cowardly  men  afraid  to  trust 
their  cause  to  justice  and  overawed  by  evil  con- 
ventions, met  for  murder.  It  has  taken  the  world 
a  good  many  hundred  years  to  see  that  duelling, 
far  from  being  honorable,  is  unjust,  contemptible, 
and  settles  nothing  except  to  determine  who  has 
the  most  skillful  arm. 

There  is  a  large  portion  of  the  world's  popula- 
tion who  still  believe  that  it  is  honorable  to  be 
endowed,  to  be  idle  and  to  be  useless.  So  far  it 
has  never  been  the  custorn  to  dub  a  farm  hand  or 
a  machinist  "the  honorable  Mr.  So-and-so."  Yet 
work  is  more  honorable  than  sport,  and  earning 
money  than  getting  it  from  your  rich  uncle. 

But  perhaps  the  worst  inversion  of  the  mean- 
ing of  honor  appears  when  the  term  is  applied 
to  nations. 

Reading  the  speech  of  a  certain  "honorable" 
gentleman  delivered  in  our  national  congress  one 
receives  the  impression  that  self-restraint,  courtesy, 
and  the  due  processes  of  justice  in  established 
tribunals  are  dishonorable,  while  it  is  honorable  to 
froth  at  the  mouth,  hurl  defiance,  and  yelp  for 
war  upon  the  appearance  of  the  least  divergence 
of  opinion  between  America  and  any  other  na- 
tion. 

It  seems  to  be  honorable  to  spend  billions  pre- 
paring for  war,  but  dishonorable  to  make  plans 
for  the  settling  of  international  disputes  by  ar- 
bitration. 

143 


It  seems  to  be  honorable  to  lie,  quibble,  and 
bluster  when  the  terms  of  a  treaty  turn  out  to  our 
advantage,  and  dishonorable  to  adjust  the  mat- 
ter by  amicable  consultation  and  rearrangement. 

It  is  honorable  to  be  a  profane,  narrow,  graft- 
ing, immoral  "Christian"  white  man,  in  Africa, 
the  Orient,  and  the  Seven  Seas;  but  it  is  dishon- 
orable, it  is  sickly,  mawkish  cowardice  to  act  as  a 
decent  gentleman. 

When  you  hear  a  man  blow  about  honor  it  is 
time  to  inquire  just  what  brand  of  honor  he 
means. 

"For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men." 


144 


DEMOCRACY  AND   ORGANIZATION 

THERE  can  be  no  democracy  without  organiza- 
tion. 

A  democracy  whose  units  do  not  work  together, 
where  there  is  no  co-ordination,  will  fall  to  pieces. 

A  monarchy,  a  tyranny,  can  get  along  without 
organizing  the  people.  In  fact,  where  the  peo- 
ple have  no  team-play,  there  is  where  the  despot 
is  needed.  Having  no  intelligent  unity  they  must 
have  an  artificial  unity,  the  unity  of  a  superim- 
posed brute  force. 

We  fear  standing  armies.  But  such  armies,  in 
the  days  of  Rome,  were  perfect  machines  com- 
posed of  only  a  small  number  of  people,  and  they 
ruled  only  because  the  rest  of  the  populace  was 
not  drilled  to  keep  step.  In  a  true  democracy 
the  whole  population — men,  women,  and  children 
— should  be  a  standing  army,  not  necessarily  to 
march  and  shoot,  but,  under  equal  discipline,  to 
sow,  reap  and  sell. 

All  despotisms  have  been  due  to  a  lack  of  or- 
ganization among  the  common  people.  So  now- 
adays, in  the  loose  individualism  of  the  city,  any 
compact  band  of  drilled  men  can  control  them. 
Hence  we  have  the  political  party  and  the  boss 

145 


system.  A  dozen  ignorant,  selfish,  unscrupulous 
men,  if  well  organized,  can  govern  a  thousand 
intelligent  and  honest  people  who  will  not  get 
together. 

The  reason  why  democracy  is  impossible  with- 
out organized  unity  is  this :  Democracy  means  a 
government  in  the  interest  of  all  the  people,  even 
the  weakest,  and  the  only  power  great  enough 
to  secure  the  weakest  man  his  rights  is  the  or- 
ganized power  of  the  whole  state. 

Where  everything  is  left  in  a  condition  of  free 
competition,  human  society  is  like  the  jungle  of 
wild  beasts,  and  the  strong  devour  the  feeble.  In 
the  United  States  a  few  powerful  men,  powerful 
by  natural  shrewdness  or  by  having  certain  priv- 
ileges, have  exploited  the  populace  for  their  own 
personal  gain.  They  did  this  by  co-operation,  by 
forming  trusts. 

The  only  way  to  remedy  this  is  for  the  people 
to  form  a  better  and  stronger  trust,  to  make  of  the 
state  a  trust  able  to  swallow  up  the  beef,  milk,  or 
railway  trusts.  You  cannot  go  backward  and 
make  the  trusts  become  competitive ;  a  social  con- 
solidation once  formed  cannot  be  turned  back  to 
individualism;  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go  on — 
is  to  organize  the  whole  people  into  a  trust. 

There  is  no  freedom  worth  the  name  except  in 
perfect  organization. 

A  state  of  pure  individualism  or  anarchy  al- 
ways invites  the  man  on  horseback  and  the  rob- 
ber baron. 

146 


Freedom  in  a  state  keeps  pace  with  organiza- 
tion; and  in  degree  as  each  man  does  as  he  pleases 
tyrants  prosper,  whether  feudal  duke  or  Chicago 
ward  boss. 

The  political  party,  the  business  trust,  the  ec- 
clesiastical hierarchy,  and  all  partial  gettings- 
together  of  men  are  but  drills  and  preliminary 
"setting  up"  exercises,  wherein  mankind  is  prac- 
tising for  the  coming  organized  world-militia  and 
world-business  house,  in  which  every  living  per- 
son has  a  responsible  part. 

We  now  have  government  "of  the  people";  it 
can  become  government  "for  the  people  and  by 
the  people"  only  by  complete  organization. 

I  do  not  advocate  socialism;  it  connotes  too 
much.  But,  unless  we  secure  an  organized  de- 
mocracy, we  shall  have  by  and  by  no  democracy  at 
all. 


147 


GLORY 

WHAT  mankind  wants  most  of  all  is  glory. 
It  means  the  deed,  the  word,  or  the  state  of  being 
which  shines. 

The  real  hell  of  men  and  women  is  dulness, 
dryness,  humdrum. 

The  old  painters  put  a  line  of  light  about  the 
heads  of  saints.  It  was  called  a  halo.  It  meant 
there  was  something  in  the  nature  of  these  supe- 
rior souls  that  shone. 

Moses's  face  shone  when  he  came  down  from 
Sinai ;  Jesus's  whole  form  shone  on  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration,  and  there  is  a  legend  of  an  Irish 
saint  who  when  praying  in  his  lonely  hut  filled  it 
so  with  light  that  luminous  rays  were  seen  issuing 
from  the  cracks  of  the  wall.  Buddhist  lore  is  full 
of  shining  ones. 

All  this  is  an  expression  of  the  deep  conviction 
of  the  race  that  the  highest  state  of  man  is  when 
he  shines. 

For  this  cause  also  anything  that  takes  one  "out 
of  himself"  has  always  been  regarded  by  primitive 
peoples  as  something  supernatural.  This  is  why 
the  Greeks  worshipped  Bacchus  and  imagined 
the  toxic  effect  of  wine  to  be  divine.  And  to  this 

148 


day  men  go  to  the  bottle  to  get  that  semblance 
of  uplift,  to  produce  that  illumination  of  the 
senses.  A  slang  phrase  suggests  the  truth  of  the 
matter,  when  it  is  said  of  a  drunken  man  that 
he  is  "all  lit  up." 

So  the  savage  tribes  everywhere  have  looked 
on  insane  persons  as  God's  own,  as  sacred. 

There  is  a  great  truth  behind  all  these  gropings. 
It  is  that  the  spirit  of  man  craves  something  that 
will  make  it  glow. 

What  we  ask  of  you,  poet,  is  to  give  us  this. 
We  care  nothing  about  your  word-juggling.  Give 
us  the  luminous  word. 

What  the  child  asks  of  the  teacher  is  this;  not 
facts  and  precepts,  but  that  something  that  shall 
make  the  young  mind  burn. 

What  we  ask  of  the  preacher  and  prophet  is 
not  instruction;  we  know  a  deal  now  more  than 
we  can  practise;  but  to  make  our  souls  "burn 
within  us  by  the  way." 

What  we  ask  of  the  novelist  is  not  a  clever  plot 
nor  perfect  literature,  but  the  torch,  the  electric 
shock. 

The  soul  that  glows  not  does  not  live;  it  vege- 
tates, as  a  cabbage.  It  is  an  apple  with  no  flavor, 
a  dinner  of  chemical  compounds  without  savor,  a 
drab  rose,  an  odorless  lily,  bread  without  butter, 
potatoes  without  salt,  an  unlit  candle. 

There  has  been  much  said  of  love,  but  the  real 
reason  why  we  make  so  much  of  it  is  that  it  makes 
life  shine.  It  puts  a  halo  on  a  common  face,  it 

149 


makes  drudgery  divine,  it  touches  poverty  with  a 
fairy  wand  and  makes  it  alive  and  rich. 

In  a  word,  love  has  that  thing  for  which  all 
human  creation  is  hungry  and  thirsty — glory. 

If  I  were  a  good  fairy  I  should  ask  no  greater 
gift  than  to  have  some  flower  juice,  as  Puck  had, 
to  squeeze  on  mortal  eyes,  so  that  the  common 
things  of  earth  would  gleam  like  things  of  heaven. 


150 


A  MAN'S  COUNTRY 

MME.  PEDRAZZA,  who  was  Miss  Clark  of  Buf- 
falo, returned  to  America  after  an  absence  of 
five  years.  She  married  a  Spaniard.  Although 
entirely  contented  herself  she  condemns  marriages 
between  American  girls  and  Europeans. 

"Spain,"  she  says,  "is  essentially  a  man's 
country.  The  women  are  half  a  century  behind 
the  times.  Not  even  a  married  woman  is  sup- 
posed to  go  out  alone  in  the  street  by  day  or  by 
night.  The  American  girl  either  rebels  against 
the  artificial  restrictions  or  they  break  her  spirit." 

That  phrase,  "a  man's  country,"  is  a  bit  of 
thought-radium,  and  sends  sharp  rays  in  all  di- 
rections. 

"A  man's  country."  That  is  what  is  the  matter 
with  Spain,  also  of  all  continental  Europe,  and 
in  still  more  marked  degree  of  the  Asiatic  Orient 
and  of  savage  Africa. 

Wherever  you  find  a  man's  country  you  find 
fixity  of  absurd  custom,  ancient  fraud  buttressed 
and  impregnable,  injustice  established  by  law  and 
maintained  by  force.  Mexico  is  a  man's  country. 

Government  from  which  women  are  excluded 
becomes  rotten. 


Anything  from  which  women  are  shut  out  be- 
comes feeble  and  offensive. 

If  there  is  anything  I  detest  it  is  a  room  where 
men  only  are  supposed  to  congregate. 

The  reason  the  American  bar  is  a  dirty  place 
and  the  French,  German,  or  Italian  drinking  re- 
sort is  usually  perfectly  respectable  and  cheery 
is  that  men  only  are  in  the  one  and  women  also 
frequent  the  other. 

The  entrance  of  young  women  into  downtown 
offices  has  elevated  the  tone  of  these  offices  100 
per  cent. 

A  woman's  place  is  everywhere.  For  wherever 
she  goes  she  invariably  brings  decency  and  bright- 
ness. 

I  know  of  no  place  on  earth  where  there  are 
more  glooms  to  the  square  inch  than  a  man's 
club.  It  is  as  exclusive  as  Sahara.  It  is  about  as 
hard  to  get  acquainted  in  one  of  them  as  it  is  to 
form  acquaintances  on  the  street. 

A  man-only  school  or  college  is  a  holdover 
from  mediaeval  days.  The  boys  tend  to  become 
either  little  bullies  or  little  prigs. 

Nature  designed  the  sexes  to  mingle  freely. 
The  best  thing  in  the  world  for  a  boy  is  to  as- 
sociate daily  with  girls. 

Woman  is  a  born  civilizer.  Whenever  possible 
she  ought  to  be  side  by  side  with  man ;  otherwise 
he  runs  down  at  the  heel  and  becomes  second- 
class  generally. 

Women  appreciate  literature,  art,  government, 
152 


and  religion  more  than  men  do.  About  all  most 
men  are  good  for  is  to  make  money,  a  business 
sadly  overrated.  As  Charlie  Case  used  to  say, 
"Woman  is  superior  to  man  in  every  way,  'shape 
and  form.' ' 

The  only  reason  I  am  satisfied  to  be  a  man  is 
that  I  have  the  privilege  of  living  with  a  woman. 
Think  of  having  to  live  with  men  only ! 

Tradition  has  it  that  the  angels  are  all  male. 
There  are  no  she-angels  mentioned  in  the  Bible. 
If  I  get  to  heaven  and  find  it  is  for  men  only  I 
surely  will  look  for  another  place. 


153 


NOSERINGS 

LATEST  telegraphic  reports  from  Paris  indicate 
that  the  ear,  so  long  concealed  under  a  pendulant 
wad  of  hair  by  the  decree  of  fashion,  is  emerging 
a  bit.  The  lobe  at  least  is  about  to  creep  out. 
There  should  be  a  dash  of  red  smeared  upon  it 
deftly.  Also  there  should  be  earrings. 

Why  earrings?  The  only  reason  for  wearing 
them  may  perhaps  be  detected  by  the  philosophi- 
cal observer  in  the  story  told  by  Apelles,  who 
rebuked  a  mediocre  painter  for  depicting  the 
divine  Helen  covered  with  jewels  by  saying, 
"You  could  not  make  her  beautiful,  so  you  made 
her  rich." 

But,  if  earrings,  why  not  noserings?  The  nose 
is  by  far  the  most  upstanding  and  conspicuous 
object  of  the  face.  It  is  as  it  were  a  natural  flag- 
pole or  bill  board;  and  if  there  is  going  to  be  any 
advertising  done  it  would  seem  that  the  nose 
should  have  first  place. 

Why  should  a  large  diamond,  worth  the  price 
of  a  horse  and  buggy,  be  placed  in  the  comparative 
obscurity  of  the  eartip  when  it  might  gleam  upon 
the  nose  as  the  headlight  of  one's  personality — 
and  possessions? 

154 


Noserings  have  been  and  still  are  worn  by  the 
women  of  many  races.  In  regions  of  Africa 
they  constitute  a  large  part  of  the  apparel  and 
serve  as  substitutes  for  shoes,  skirts,  corsets,  and 
hats.  Ordinary  clothes  are  not  considered  en 
regie  for  ladies,  while  to  appear  without  a  nose- 
ring is  indecent. 

There  is  much  in  this  custom  of  the  simple 
daughters  of  nature  to  recommend  it  to  our  more 
sophisticated  sisters,  who  are  enchanting  us  with 
those  delightfully  primeval  "reversions  to  type" 
known  as  the  turkey  trot,  bunny  hug,  tango,  and 
banana  slide. 

In  the  first  place  a  nosering  hurts.  It  is  of 
prime  importance  that  the  article  most  loved  in 
female  apparel  is  the  one  which  is  most  uncom- 
fortable. Shoes  are  not  stylish  unless  the  heels 
are  so  high  that  the  lady  walks  practically  on  her 
big  toe.  Corsets  are  poor  unless  they  squeeze  her 
vitals  to  the  point  of  suffocation.  Skirts  are  old- 
fashioned  if  they  allow  any  freedom  of  movement 
to  the  legs.  And  the  newest  thing  with  arms  is  to 
bind  them  tight  to  the  body. 

For  uncomfortability  the  nosering  would  have 
all  these  modes  of  torture  "beat  to  a  frazzle."  It 
would  give  constant  pain;  it  would  render  eating 
a  misery,  and  kissing  impossible.  The  wearer 
therefore  would  have  that  true,  sublime  martyr 
spirit  that  would  render  her  the  envied  of  all  the 
enviers. 

It  is  time  our  social  arbiters  turned  from  cloth- 
155 


ing  and  paid  more  attention  to  jewels.  These 
are  the  true  necessities  of  life.  Clothes  are  com- 
mon. Tradespeople  wear  them. 

"Franchise,"  said  the  magnate's  wife  to  her 
maid,  as  she  entered  the  drawing  room,  as  hostess, 
her  broad  expanse  of  front  and  back  bedizened 
with  jewels,  "Franchise,  I  feel  chilly;  bring  me 
another  diamond  necklace." 


THE  TAX  OF  IGNORANCE 

THE  human  race  since  time  began  has  been 
preyed  upon  by  parasites,  bloodsuckers,  and 
thieves.  History  is  but  a  record  of  the  system- 
atic, institutional  plunder  of  the  people  by  the 
shrewd  and  selfish  few.  It  has  been  a  lamb  popu- 
lace managed  by  wolf  exploiters.  Mankind  has 
been  taxed  incalculably,  taxed  of  money,  blood, 
life. 

But  of  all  known  taxes  that  of  Ignorance 
has  been  the  greatest,  includes  perhaps  all  other 
taxes.  All  the  tyrannies  of  rulers,  kings,  upper 
castes  and  cabals  have  not  equalled  in  their  pil- 
lage the  amount  robbed  of  humanity  by  Ignor- 
ance. All  the  pirates  of  the  Spanish  Main,  all 
the  buccaneers,  freebooters,  highway  robbers, 
burglars,  and  thugs  have  not  taken  from  us  so 
vast  a  pile  of  goods  as  has  this  same  Ignorance. 
Not  all  the  swindling  schemes  of  mining  shares, 
watered  railway  stocks,  wildcat  investments,  pred- 
atory trusts,  stock  exchanges,  and  money  powers 
have  so  depleted  us  as  Ignorance.  All  our  loss  by 
waste  and  profligacy  cannot  equal  our  loss  by 
Ignorance. 

Ignorance  claims  its  cent,  per  cent,  in  all  trades. 
157 


Nine-tenths  of  the  failures  are  due  to  Ignorance. 
Boys  enter  into  business  untrained,  uninformed; 
they  go  down  in  the  struggle.  The  slums  and 
prisons  are  full  of  men  who  stumbled  into  crime 
because  they  entered  the  battle  for  success  with- 
out skill  or  weapons. 

Civilization  systematically  keeps  its  girls  in  ig- 
norance of  the  laws  of  their  bodies,  of  the  sig- 
nificance and  functions  of  sex.  The  horde  of 
women  wrecks  that  swarm  in  our  cities  is  the  re- 
sulting tax  of  Ignorance.  How  much  domestic 
tragedy  is  due  to  the  same  cause !  Our  entire  lit- 
erature teems  with  sex-suggestion;  we  do  every- 
thing to  arouse  passion,  nothing  to  instruct  it. 

In  the  way  of  hygiene  what  a  measureless  trib- 
ute the  race  has  paid  to  Ignorance.  The  pests 
of  former  ages,  cholera,  the  black  death,  and  the 
red  death,  the  multitudes  of  corpses  heaped  up, 
simply  because  people  did  not  know  enough  to 
keep  clean! 

The  myriad  lives  that  have  been  darkened,  and 
bodies  tortured,  by  sincere  but  narrow  men  play- 
ing upon  the  common  Ignorance  of  the  unknown ! 
This  tax  which  the  hierarchy  has  levied  on  the 
light  and  joy  of  souls  is  perhaps  most  horrible 
of  all.  A  tax  due  to  pure  Ignorance. 

War,  it  is  impossible  to  pile  up  superlatives  of 
execration,  curses  cannot  be  screamed  too  loud, 
to  do  justice  to  its  abysmal  infamy;  and  there 
never  was  a  war  that  was  not  due  to  Ignorance. 
The  spectre  of  every  war  shall  arise  on  Judgment 

158 


Day  to  point  a  denouncing  finger  at  the 
rulers  of  men ;  for  it  is  only  to  cover  their  stupid- 
ity that  the  commons  are  led  forth  to  slaughter. 
"There  never  was  a  war  that  could  not  have  been 
better  settled  in  some  other  way."  Add,  then,  to 
your  tax  of  Ignorance  all  them  that  sleep  in 
mounds  by  the  Rappahannock,  that  perished  at 
Ladysmith,  San  Juan,  or  Sadowa,  and  all  other 
of  those  orgies  of  blood  and  hate  that  fill  the  pages 
of  history  as  the  stars  fill  the  sky. 

Think  of  the  tax  of  economic  Ignorance! 
Money  piled  up  in  extravagance  here,  and  yonder 
human  creatures  starving;  all  because  we  don't 
know  how  to  distribute  the  products  of  labor! 

Look  at  the  human  beings  crowded  like  cattle 
into  the  street  cars,  look  at  the  public  everywhere 
insulted,  bullied,  assaulted,  and  we  submit,  because 
we  don't  know  how  to  help  ourselves. 

The  most  economical  thing  the  United  States 
could  do  would  be  to  spend  a  billion  dollars  more 
a  year  to  give  all  children  an  education,  and 
thus  do  what  may  be  done  to  remove  the  taxa- 
tion imposed  by  Ignorance. 

It  is  the  only  way! 


159 


NOW 

I  AM  glad  I  am  alive  and  that  I  am  living  in 
these  opening  years  of  the  twentieth  century.  For 
these  present  times  are  the  greatest  and  best  the 
world  has  ever  seen. 

The  Greek  thanked  the  gods  he  was  a  Greek  and 
not  a  barbarian,  a  free  man  and  not  a  slave,  a 
man  and  not  a  woman.  I  shall  content  myself 
with  thanking  God  I  am  living  in  the  nineteen 
hundreds  and  not  in  any  previous  century. 

Men  on  earth  to-day  have  more  good  food  to 
eat  and  purer  water  to  drink  than  ever  before. 
Sailors  can  carry  canned  tomatoes  and  succotash 
where  formerly  they  could  only  take  salt  horse 
and  weevilly  biscuit.  I  can  stop  in  at  the  butcher 
shop,  get  a  beefsteak  and  grill  it  on  my  gas  stove 
in  a  jiffy,  instead  of  having  to  build  a  fire  and 
wait  for  a  bed  of  coals.  If  I  breakfast  at  home 
there  are  at  hand  any  one  of  thirteen  kinds  of 
scientifically  prepared  cereals,  instead  of  only 
the  corn  meal  and  hominy  of  the  days  of  our 
fathers. 

We  have  better  underwear,  stockings  and  outer 
garments  than  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  or  J.  Caesar 
ever  dreamed  of. 

1 60 


We  get  purer  water  out  of  the  kitchen  faucet 
than  grandpa  ever  drew  up  with  his  old  oaken 
bucket. 

The  civilized  world  is  freer  from  pests  than 
ever  before;  the  terrible  black  deaths  of  former 
ages  are  now  unknown. 

Whereas  it  used  to  be  a  serious  and  most  un- 
pleasant undertaking  to  journey  from  New  York 
to  Philadelphia,  one  can  go  these  days  around 
the  circle  of  the  earth,  traveling  as  comfortably 
as  if  he  were  in  a  city  hotel. 

We  are  living  in  the  days  of  graft  exposures; 
in  former  times  graft  was  even  worse,  only  it 
wasn't  exposed. 

Above  all  this,  it  is  the  era  of  the  common 
people.  They  are  getting  forward,  saucy,  impu- 
dent, even  rampageous;  whereat  I  rejoice.  From 
East  to  West  they  are  arising  and  smiting.  They 
have  shipped  royalty  out  of  Portugal;  they  have 
tweaked  the  distinguished  nose  of  aristocracy  in 
England;  they  are  threatening  to  oust  William's 
family  and  military  bureaucracy  from  Germany 
and  turn  the  government  over  to  the  people,  who 
pay  for  it;  they  are  in  the  saddle  in  France  and 
giving  that  country  the  best  government  it  ever 
had;  they  are  raising  the  Old  Nick  in  the  Balkans 
against  Turkish  tyranny,  and  they  have  even 
turned  ancient  and  fixed  China  upside  down. 

In  the  United  States  of  America  the  welfare  of 
the  common  man  is  ceasing  to  be  politics  and  be- 
coming religion. 

161 


And,  speaking  of  religion,  was  there  ever  an 
age  before  this  when  moral  sap  was  flowing  so 
free,  when  righteousness  was  more  universally 
appealed  to,  when  ethics  was  less  in  control  of 
hierarchic  close  corporations,  when  humbuggery 
was  more  sure  to  be  shot  to  pieces  by  ridicule,  and 
when  the  river  of  God  flowed  so  freely  through 
the  streets  of  the  city? 

Thank  God  for  now! 


162 


RED 

THROUGH  the  green  earth  runs  a  red  stream. 
It  is  the  blood  of  men. 

When  this  stream  enters  upon  a  wild  continent, 
forests  become  houses,  rivers  bear  cities,  as  pearls 
upon  their  silver  thread,  deserts  are  watered  and 
become  fruitful,  mountains  are  tunnelled,  the  earth 
is  corded  with  wires  whereon  thoughts  run,  and 
all  things  are  mastered  by  the  red  line. 

Green  is  a  mighty  color,  the  hue  of  the  field 
and  forest;  and  yellow  is  imperial,  the  tint  of 
the  sun  and  of  gold;  and  blue  is  vast  and  infinite, 
the  tone  of  the  sea  and  of  the  sky  above  it;  but 
red  is  lord  of  them  all,  for  it  is  the  cast  of  what 
is  mightier  than  all — life. 

Red  is  the  color  of  force.  Hence,  it  is  the 
fighting  color.  It  is  not  without  reason  that  the 
British  soldier  wears  a  red  coat  and  the  French 
soldier  red  trousers,  that  the  Turk  puts  on  a  red 
fez  and  the  anarchist  waves  a  red  flag.  Red 
means  life  at  its  fiercest  activity. 

Everybody  knows  that  red  excites  the  bull. 
Professor  W.  Peabody  Bartlett  is  authority  for 
the  statement  that  red  also  makes  the  rooster 

163 


crow,  the  dog  bark,  the  spider  bite,  and  the  wasp 
sting. 

It  is  because  red  incites  to  interest  self  expres- 
sion that  tradition  has  clothed  the  Devil  in  this 
tint;  as  goodness  has  been  usually  understood  to 
consist  in  submission  to  authority  and  conform- 
ing to  custom,  and  badness  in  following  one's  own 
lead. 

Red  is  the  sign  of  authority;  it  is  the  color  of 
the  cardinal's  hat. 

It  is  the  signal  of  individuality  and  rebellion. 
For  long  it  was  the  custom  upon  the  stage  to  dress 
every  adventuress,  every  woman  of  the  half 
world,  in  clothes  of  this  shade. 

Curiously  enough,  red  is  also  the  sign  of  inno- 
cence in  mediaeval  symbolism.  In  the  paintings  in 
the  Boston  public  library,  by  Abbey,  of  scenes  in 
the  life  of  Sir  Galahad,  the  hero  is  clothed  in  red. 
While  white  expresses  the  innocence  of  ignorance, 
of  virgins  and  celibates,  red  is  the  expression  of 
the  innocence  of  the  wise  and  tried,  of  the  warrior 
for  truth,  and  of  all  who  battle  blamelessly  in  this 
naughty  world. 

The  Jews  were  forbidden  by  the  laws  of  Moses 
to  consume  the  blood  of  animals;  it  was  to  be 
poured  out  upon  the  ground,  as  sacred  unto  the 
Lord,  "for  the  blood  is  the  life." 

So,  should  the  great  eyes  of  some  mighty  spirit 
look  down  upon  this  earth  and  take  cognizance 
thereof,  of  all  its  doings  and  creations,  the  ob- 
ject that  would  interest  him  most  would  be  the 

164 


red  stream  of  life,  coming  down  the  cascades  of  the 
centuries,  flowing  everywhere  upon  land  and  sea, 
and  manifesting  itself  always  in  power  and  lord- 
ship. 


WHAT  TO  DO 

A  VERY  great  and  wise  man  came  to  America. 
His  fame  was  such  that  all  the  nation  believed 
that  to  follow  his  advice  in  anything  would  bring 
success. 

So  all  the  legislatures  of  all  the  states  elected 
representatives  to  meet  at  Washington  and  ask 
him  what  to  do. 

When  they  had  gathered  together  he  asked 
them,  "What  do  you  want  most?" 

They  answered,  "To  get  rid  of  crime  and  crim- 
inals, to  stop  the  social  evil,  to  abolish  our  slums, 
to  clean  our  states  and  cities  of  poverty." 

"Very  well,"  he  replied.  "It  will  take  thirty- 
three  years,  or  one  generation,  but  if  you  will 
faithfully  do  as  I  say  you  will  certainly  succeed." 

Whereupon  there  was  loud  applause  and  ex- 
ulting; and  they  said:  "Tell  us  what  to  do,  and 
upon  our  lives  and  honor  we  will  most  surely 
do  it." 

"I  will  tell  you  a  week  from  to-day,"  he  re- 
sponded. 

This  he  said  in  order  that  the  enthusiasts  who 
had  ideas  of  reforming  the  people  might  make 
their  suggestions. 

166 


And  they  came  to  him  post  haste,  all  sorts. 
Preachers  and  priests  came,  saying  they  hoped  he 
would  say  to  give  more  money  to  churches  and 
have  grand  revivals  and  get  everybody  converted. 
All  kinds  of  political  and  economical  apostles  be- 
sieged him;  single  taxers,  socialists,  anarchists, 
progressives,  and  prohibitionists,  and  all  had  their 
say. 

But  upon  the  set  day  he  arose  before  the  dele- 
gates and  said: 

"All  the  plans  you  have  proposed  to  me  have 
their  good  points,  but  all  have  a  fatal  weak  spot, 
which  is  that  they  deal  with  adults. 

"I  do  not  propose  to  bother  with  them.  They 
will  all  be  dead  anyhow  in  a  few  years.  Besides, 
what  you  do  with  one  adult  crop  of  people  must 
be  done  anew  with  the  next.  It  is  a  fool  way  of 
trying  to  improve  the  race.  Hence,  go  on  as  you 
are  now  doing.  It  is  the  best  you  know  and  will 
last  your  time.  Sixty  years  from  now,  when  your 
children  and  grandchildren  are  at  the  helm  of 
things,  all  your  reform  programmes  will  fade 
away  useless. 

"This  is  what  to  do.  First,  enlarge  your  pub- 
lic school  system  until  it  provides  for  the  free 
education  and  economic  support  of  all  the  popu- 
lation under  twenty. 

"Second,  to  raise  money  for  this  cause  the 
state  to  be  an  equal  partner  in  every  concern  or 
with  every  individual  who  has  a  hundred  thousand 

167 


dollars  or  more ;  one-half  the  profits  or  income  to 
go  to  the  state  to  support  its  children. 

"Third,  so  reform  your  public  schools  that  the 
children  therein  shall  be  taught  how  to  live; 
that  is,  first  of  all,  moral  character,  including 
honesty,  cleanliness,  the  value  of  truth,  and  of 
courage  to  tell  and  live  the  truth. 

"Train  them  in  politics.  Let  the  schools  be  as 
democratic  as  the  nation.  Do  not  govern  the 
children.  Teach  them  how  to  govern  themselves. 
Let  it  be  ground  into  every  girl  and  boy  that  it  is 
disgraceful  not  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  or- 
ganization of  the  ward,  city,  state,  and  nation. 

"Just  pay  due  attention  to  one  generation  of 
children  and  it  will  save  you  a  hundred  years' 
labor  with  the  adults." 

This  plan  being  so  simple  the  delegates  felt 
their  intelligence  insulted  and  said :  "What!  And 
did  we  come  here  to  be  told  about  children?" 
Also  the  reformers  and  institution-job-holders 
cried  out  upon  him.  The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that 
they  seized  the  man  and  threw  him  into  a  mad- 
house. 


1 68 


THE  COMMONPLACE 

THE  people  of  the  world  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes,  those  who  find  their  happiness  in  the 
usual,  and  those  who  find  their  happiness  in  the 
unusual. 

The  first  are  as  a  rule  healthy,  contented,  help- 
ful, and  optimistic. 

The  second  are  as  a  rule  morbid,  restless,  pessi- 
mistic, and  nuisances  to  all  around  them. 

The  most  important  thing  for  a  human  being 
to  learn,  is  it  not  how  to  live  his  life  with  a  max- 
imum of  contentment  and  care  of  body  and  mind, 
and  the  minimum  of  friction? 

Those  have  discovered  what  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  secret  of  existence,  who  have  come  to 
realize  that  it  is  in  the  commonplace  that  one  is 
to  find  permanent  satisfaction;  and  that  the  ex- 
traordinary, strange,  and  occasional  sources  of 
pleasure  are  to  be  regarded  as  a  matter  by  the 
way,  not  to  be  taken  account  of  in  their  pro- 
gramme. 

Yet  the  majority  of  silly  mortals  never  learn 
this.  Consequently,  most  people  are  more  or  less 
soured,  peevish,  and  discontented. 

169 


It  is  the  duty  of  our  teachers  to  lead  us  back 
to  the  enjoyment  of  life's  everydayness. 

The  sum  of  culture,  of  wisdom,  and  of  intelli- 
gent experience  consists  in  an  appreciation  of  the 
ordinary  events  and  circumstances,  and  in  a  proper 
discounting  of  the  occasional. 

The  happiest  wife  and  mother  is  the  one  whose 
delight  is  in  the  daily  round  of  the  home,  the 
companionship  of  her  husband,  the  care  and 
guidance  of  her  children.  The  unhappiest  is  the 
wife  who  is  longing  to  escape  this,  who  calls  it 
drudgery,  and  whose  pleasures  are  found  only 
in  the  occasional  excursion,  theatre,  or  social  di- 
version. 

The  happiest  business  man  is  the  man  to  whom 
business  is  fun.  The  unhappiest  is  the  man  who 
looks  upon  his  occupation  as  a  grind  and  whose 
pleasure  is  in  breaking  away. 

The  happiest  workman  is  the  one  who  enjoys 
his  work;  the  unhappiest  is  the  one  whose  work 
worries  him  and  who  is  always  looking  forward 
to  getting  away  from  it. 

The  great  sources  of  human  joy  are  all  com- 
monplace. 

They  are  nature,  love,  and  self-expression 
(work  and  play).  Anybody  can  have  these. 
They  are  as  common  as  dirt.  They  are  as  near 
to  the  reach  of  the  section  hand  as  to  the  reach 
of  the  railway  president.  They  lie  as  close  to  the 
grocer  as  to  the  college  professor. 

Any  one  can  learn  how  to  get  the  honey  of 
170 


joy  from  nature,  from  her  sun  and  wave  and 
field.  Any  one  can  love  and  be  loved,  and  fully 
as  gloriously  in  a  tenement  as  in  a  mansion.  Any 
one  can  find  work  to  do  and  games  to  play  thereby. 
Two  clerks  playing  seven-up  on  a  soap  box  in  a 
back  room  can  get  precisely  as  much  fun  out  of 
the  game  as  two  dress-suited  Charlies  in  a  plush- 
lined  clubhouse. 

The  cheaper  and  commoner  a  thing,  the  more 
joy  juice  in  it.  For  there  is  more  exhilaration, 
take  it  by  and  large,  in  water,  than  in  all  varieties 
of  booze,  more  good  feelings  produced  by  bread 
and  butter  than  by  cake  and  Bar-le-Duc,  more 
•comfort  in  loving  your  wife  and  playing  with 
your  children  than  in  loving  other  men's  wives  and 
regarding  children  as  a  bore. 

I  call  a  man  truly  converted,  or  enlightened,  or 
born  again,  or  emancipated,  or  whatever  expres- 
sion suits  you,  when  he  has  weeded  out  of  his  soul 
the  lust  for  the  exceptional,  and  when  he  has 
learned  that  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world  is  to 
live  and  to  enjoy  those  pleasures  of  life  that  are 
common  to  all  the  race. 

In  time  past  people  could  see  religion  only  in 
extraordinary  things,  in  miracles,  abnormal  saints, 
and  esoteric  tommyrot ;  now  the  world  is  awaken- 
ing to  see  that  it  is  the  daily  existence  that  is  made 
free  and  joyous  by  faith. 

Happiness  is  a  fruit  that  grows  low  along  the 
ground;  little  children  and  wise  men  pick  it. 
Fools  are  looking  up  at  the  trees. 

171 


MAKING  THE  IDEAL   REAL 

THE  Supreme  Being's  name  is  the  Creator. 

Man  is  a  child  of  Him.  Consequently  the  di- 
vinest  thing  he  does  is  to  create. 

He  cannot  make  something  out  of  nothing,  but 
he  can  do  what  is  almost  as  miraculous,  he  can 
make  the  real  out  of  the  ideal. 

The  root  meaning  of  the  word  "poet"  is 
"maker."  How  he  "makes"  is  indicated  in  the 
familiar  lines  of  Shakespeare's  "A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream": 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  form  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

There  is  a  dash  of  poetry  in  all  good  work, 
whether  housekeeping,  railroading,  or  millinery. 
Just  that  flash  of  the  ideal  made  real  distinguishes 
the  artist  from  the  artisan,  craftsmanship  from  la- 
bor, the  author  from  the  hack  writer. 

This  is  the  true  patent  of  nobility,  the  seed  of 
172 


undying  fame.  A  cheap,  low  deed  can  bring  you 
notoriety;  only  that  deed  where  the  ideal  becomes 
real  can  bring  you  genuine  fame,  which  is  "a  mon- 
ument more  lasting  than  brass." 

The  "Hallelujah  Chorus"  from  the  "Messiah" 
is  sung  throughout  Christendom  every  Christmas. 
It  is  king  of  choruses.  No  composition  has  suc- 
cessfully disputed  its  place.  That  is  because  Han- 
del saw  heaven  opened  and  heard  the  angels  of 
God  singing,  and  somehow  made  his  fancy  real  in 
music. 

When  you  see  Michael  Angelo's  "Moses,"  or 
Leonardo  Da  Vinci's  "Mona  Lisa,"  or  the  ca- 
thedral of  Cologne,  you  have  the  strange  feeling 
of  something  peeping  out  at  you  from  the  infinite 
unreal;  you  are  brushed  by  the  breath  of  eternity. 

But  the  great  masters  are  set  as  lighthouses  to 
guide  common  lives.  You  and  I,  in  our  small 
corner,  can  live  as  luminously  if  we  catch  their 
secret. 

Marriage  that  has  lost  its  poetry,  its  sense  of 
ideal  values,  the  tender  spiritual  significances  of 
love,  becomes  a  prison  and  a  horror. 

Motherhood  is  irksome  where  no  unseen  wings 
flutter  above  the  cradle. 

What  laboring  men  need  more  than  any  of  the 
things  they  are  organizing  to  get,  is  the  spirit  that 
shall  change  work  into  craft;  for  a  man's  best 
wage  is  of  the  spirit. 

It  is  the  power  to  make  the  ideal  real  that  makes 
the  cook  a  chef,  the  actor  a  star,  the  singer  a  diva, 

173 


the  preacher  a  prophet,  the  teacher  a  spiritual 
torch,  the  politician  a  statesman,  the  editor  a 
"prime  minister  of  public  opinion,"  the  woman 
"a  spirit  yet  a  woman,  too." 

The  only  beneficent  part  of  religion  is  the  color, 
warmth,  and  glow  it  gives  to  humdrum  lives. 

The  world  is  hungry  and  thirsty  for  this  power 
to  make  real  the  ideal.  Down  in  the  core  of  our 
souls  we  do  not  want  money  nor  blare  of  place 
and  prestige;  we  want  the  touch  of  the  Ithuriel 
spear  that  shall  make  daily  things  wonderful, 
shoot  our  commonplace  existence  through  with 
bright  miracles,  and  rain  mystery,  light,  and 
beauty  into  barren  days. 


174 


THE  OLDER  SISTER 

SHE  was  one  of  those  born-motherly  souls. 
There  are  some  women  (for  them  our  warmest 
thanks  go  up  to  heaven)  who  come  into  this  selfish 
world  equipped  with  the  mothering  instinct. 

She  was  the  Older  Sister.  The  mother,  a  weak, 
lovable,  and  entirely  incompetent  being,  died  after 
she  had  brought  six  girls  into  life. 

The  Older  Sister  moved  naturally  up  into  the 
mother's  place.  She  looked  after  the  younger 
sisters,  mended  their  stockings,  kept  their  frocks 
neat  and  their  bedrooms  in  order,  their  hair 
combed,  and  their  nails  cleaned. 

She  watched  the  home  expenditures,  checked  up 
the  grocery  man,  and  saw  to  it  that  the  cook  pre- 
pared something  fit  to  eat. 

She  also  attended  to  father,  had  his  suits 
pressed,  his  laundry  well  done,  and  his  slippers 
ready. 

There  are  two  classes  of  human  beings.  One 
assumes  responsibility.  The  other  avoids  it.  She 
assumed  it.  The  others  unanimously  let  her. 

She  sent  the  children  to  school.  She  got  most 
of  their  lessons  for  them.  She  was  the  high  wall 


and  the  shepherd  dog  and  the  rear  guard  of  that 
family. 

She  saw  them  all  married.  Then  she  herself 
was  married.  She  was  beautiful,  with  a  demure 
kind  of  beauty.  Her  husband  adored  her. 

He  took  her  away  and  loaded  her  with  atten- 
tions. He  surrounded  her  with  servants.  Lux- 
uries were  at  her  hand. 

She  pined  away.  She  was  not  happy.  Some 
women  are  by  nature  wives  and  some  are  by  na- 
ture mothers.  She  ought  to  have  had  children, 
but  had  none. 

One  day  her  husband  was  brought  home  a 
cripple.  He  had  been  in  a  railway  accident.  He 
would  never  be  well  again. 

They  said  he  should  be  taken  to  the  hospital. 
There  she  stood  firm,  insisting  that  she  would  care 
for  him  herself.  So  she  nursed  him.  And  began 
to  pick  up.  To  be  coddled  did  not  agree  with  her; 
coddling  some  one  she  loved  gave  her  health  and 
happiness. 

After  her  husband  died  she  began  taking  care 
of  her  sisters'  children.  Her  sisters  handed  them 
over  to  her  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  mothered 
them  all,  planned,  worked,  and  dreamed  for  them. 

Her  whole  life  was  spent  in  an  unending  sac- 
rifice for  others.  Perhaps  she  "deserved  no 
credit"  for  this,  because  she  liked  to  do  it. 

Once,  when  she  was  fifteen,  her  father  brought 
home  six  large,  red  apples.  She  gave  each  of  her 
sisters  one,  laying  her  own  on  the  kitchen  shelf. 

176 


They  devoured  theirs.  Then  the  two  smallest 
came  and  stood  about  looking  at  the  apple  on  the 
shelf.  She  cut  it  in  two  and  gave  each  one-half. 
They  ate  joyfully. 

Their  explanation  of  this  was  that  sister  did 
not  like  apples ! 

Perhaps  the  Older  Sister  was  deficient  in  some 
way,  and  possibly  there  was  truth  in  the  remarks 
of  some  neighbors,  that  she  lacked  spirit,  that  she 
never  amounted  to  much,  and  that  she  would  have 
done  better  to  have  asserted  her  rights. 

Perhaps. 

But,  please,  Lord,  don't  stop  making  such  as 
she! 


177 


MARRIAGE  AND  PERSONALITY 

MY  dear  Clara  and  George — You  ask  me  to 
give  you  a  little  advice  as  you  are  starting  upon 
your  honeymoon.  Nothing  is  easier.  Advising 
is  the  best  thing  I  do.  It  is  practising  that  comes 
hard. 

I  have  seen  many  successful  marriages;  and  not 
a  few  failures.  Of  course,  no  set  of  rules  could  in- 
dicate with  certainty  the  way  of  success,  because 
marriage  is  an  adjustment  of  two  personalities, 
and  personality  is  the  most  intricate  and  least 
understood  of  subjects.  Still,  here  goes  for  a 
few  hints. 

First,  let  each  other  alone.  Don't  undertake 
to  rule.  Don't  attempt  to  control  your  partner. 
Respect  his  individuality.  (And  whenever  I  say 
"him"  I  include  "her.")  Let  him  have  his  own 
religion,  politics,  tastes,  views  on  art  and  litera- 
ture, opinions  about  baked  potatoes,  shoes,  shirts, 
and  newspapers.  Unity  of  opinion  is  impossible 
unless  one  party  is  a  nonentity.  The  only  kind 
of  union  that  is  workable  and  can  be  permanent 
is  unity  in  love  and  service.  To  seek  union  in 
tastes,  ideas,  and  beliefs  is  to  insure  contention  and 

178 


alienation.  So  that,  if  you  clearly  have  it  rec- 
ognized at  the  first  that  each  of  you  is  to  live  his 
own  life  in  his  own  way,  you  will  save  your  mat- 
rimonial craft  from  shipwreck  upon  those  rocks 
where  nine-tenths  of  the  disasters  occur. 

The  Bible  says,  "They  twain  shall  be  one  flesh." 
Marriage  is  a  physical  oneness.  The  soul-mate 
idea  is  not  only  false  but  dangerous.  Two  souls 
can  never  be  one.  If  they  were  to  become  so  they 
would  lose  their  charm.  Each  must  retain  its  in- 
dividuality. Your  spirit  is  your  own,  not  your 
husband's  nor  your  wife's. 

It  is  from  this  difference  of  personalities  that 
friendship  arises.  One  who  always  agrees  with 
you,  accepts  your  views  as  his  own,  and  in  general 
sneezes  when  you  take  snuff,  sinks  to  the  position 
of  your  slave,  your  mistress,  or  your  valet.  To 
have  something  like  an  enjoyable  friendship  there 
must  be  an  interplay  of  minds,  based  upon  perfect 
liberty  of  thought  and  taste. 

Do  not  try  to  probe  into  each  other's  mind 
and  heart  too  deeply.  Love  is  a  matter  of  faith, 
not  of  knowledge.  Keep  a  little  apart.  Respect 
each  other's  privacy  of  feeling  and  opinion.  Many 
a  love  has  been  killed  by  an  insane  desire  to  tear 
off  all  the  veils  of  the  soul. 

You  must  believe  in  each  other.  You  must  trust, 
and  that  implies  that  you  do  not  know.  Loving 
your  wife  or  husband  is  much  the  same  in  quality 
as  loving  God,  and  the  effect  of  perfect  love  and 
confidence  in  one  case  is  not  unlike  the  other. 

179 


Marriage  is  always  a  compromise.  It  needs 
daily  exercise  in  conciliation  and  concession. 

Selfishness  is  its  destruction;  selfishness  which 
brings  pride  and  jealousy,  stubbornness  and  self- 
pity,  and  all  the  maudlin  weaknesses  that  under- 
mine the  strength  of  love.  Hence,  be  yourself,  let 
your  partner  be  himself  or  herself,  be  unselfish 
and  be  loyal.  Above  all,  cling  to  love,  and  do 
not  sacrifice  it  for  any  other  thing. 


180 


THE  FOUR   GREAT   DEMOCRACIES 

A  DEMOCRACY  is  a  social  condition  where  every 
human  being  is  valued  at  his  intrinsic  worth. 

The  opposite  to  democracy  is  such  a  condition 
as  values  a  man  according  to  some  artificial  or 
conventional  standard;  as,  for  instance,  because 
he  has  money,  or  because  he  is  a  member  of  some 
exclusive  group. 

In  democracy  each  man  gets  precisely  what  he 
earns.  In  contradistinction  to  this  is  the  state  of 
things  where  men  get  what  they  have  not  earned, 
for  any  reason  whatever. 

In  the  coming  state  each  man  will  be  allowed 
what  he  earns  and  no  more.  The  profits  arising 
from  combinations  in  business,  from  capital,  from 
the  natural  rise  in  values,  or  from  any  other 
source,  excepting  the  earning  capacity  of  the  in- 
dividual, will  go  to  the  state. 

Democracy  is  not  new.  It  is  a  force,  of  feeling 
and  of  reason,  as  old  as  humanity.  Its  other 
name  is  justice. 

There  are  four  great  democracies,  realms  of 
effort  in  which  it  has  never  been  possible  to  estab- 

181 


lish  permanent  unearned  privilege,  such  as  has 
been  set  up  in  society,  government,  and  money- 
making.  They  are  as  follows: 

Art,  Religion,  Love  and  Work.  In  these  "a 
man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 

Art  includes  painting,  drawing,  sculpture,  mu- 
sic, and  literature.  These  are  republics.  No 
schemes  of  men  have  ever  been  able  to  make  mon- 
archies out  of  them,  nor  to  inject  into  them  unjust 
privileges. 

No  artist  can  leave  his  talent  to  his  son.  It 
dies  with  him. 

No  artist  has  ever  climbed  to  the  heights  of 
fame,  and  remained  there,  by  any  other  means 
than  his  own  exertions. 

Place,  honor,  and  reward  in  art  is  regulated 
by  pure  justice.  You  can  keep  a  Negro  from  of- 
fice in  Alabama,  but  you  cannot  keep  the  Negro- 
blooded  Alexandre  Dumas  and  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge  from  being  kings,  the  one  in  story- 
telling, the  other  in  music. 

You  may  bar  a  Rousseau  or  a  Voltaire  or  a  Poe 
from  the  church  or  the  city  council  on  account  of 
a  failure  to  measure  up  to  the  mark  in  morals,  but 
no  amount  of  moral  lapse  can  prevent  them  from 
taking  their  place  in  the  high-priesthood  of  art. 

Art  asks  but  one  question:  "What  can  you 
do?"  It  cares  not  one  whit  who  is  your  father, 
what  is  your  conduct,  nor  how  much  money  you 
have. 

Religion  is  an  essential  democracy.  For  a 
182 


thousand  years  a  steady  attempt  has  been  made 
to  organize  it  on  the  class  system;  but  the  twenti- 
eth century  is  realizing  that  the  Founder  of  Christ- 
ianity intended  His  following  to  be  upon  a  pure 
manhood  basis.  Sectarianism  is  waning.  Relig- 
ion is  growing. 

Love  is  the  stubbornest  of  democracies.  We 
never  can  be  made  to  love  any  one  because  he  or 
she  has  privilege,  place  or  power.  Men  and 
women  have  always  loved  one  another  for  them- 
selves alone,  and  always  will  to  the  end  of  time. 
Any  love  that  is  not  for  pure  personal  worth  and 
charm  is  not  love  at  all,  but  a  degrading  substi- 
tute. In  the  realm  of  lovers  is  equal  suffrage. 

Work  is  democratic.  Among  the  men  who  do 
things  it  is  the  person  who  can  do  things  who 
counts.  When  you  go  to  digging  ditches,  building 
houses,  laying  brick,  or  running  a  locomotive,  it 
makes  not  the  slightest  difference  to  your  employer 
whether  you  belong  to  the  first  families  or  have  a 
million  dollars  in  the  bank. 

All  the  vast  work  of  this  world,  all  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  people  who  are  producing,  trans- 
porting, and  improving  the  products  of  earth,  is 
organized  by  necessity  upon  the  ground  of  merit 
alone.  There  are  exceptions,  but  inconsiderable. 

It  is  only  among  the  professionally  idle  that 
aristocracies  (the  artificial  kind)  persist.  Kings, 
nobles,  millionaires,  the  endowed,  those  who  hold 
sinecures,  sects,  clubs,  lodges,  social  sets,  and  the 

183 


like  continue  to  cherish  the  doctrine  of  unearned 
goods. 

The  real  people  of  the  world  live  among  the 
eternal  democracies  of  art,  religion,  love,  and 
work. 


184 


A  VISION  OF  HANDS 

A  VISION  of  hands. 

God's  machines.  Man's  machines,  makers  of 
all  other  machines.  Machines  brain-directed,  in- 
stinct guided,  skill  incarnate,  spiritual  symbols. 

Hands  deft  and  busy,  hands  of  the  old  woman 
sitting  in  the  sun  knitting  while  her  mind  is  else- 
where, the  virtuoso's  hands  like  white  mice  upon 
the  keyboard  bringing  forth  showers  of  sounds, 
hands  of  the  violinist  feeling  for  the  exquisite 
edges  of  tones,  of  the  flutist  unstopping  melodies, 
the  waving  hand  of  the  conductor  and  the  hands 
of  the  orchestra  moving  in  military  team-play. 

Hands  that  speak.  Hands  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb  spelling  words.  Hands  upraised  in  amaze- 
ment, dropped  in  despair,  wrung  in  anguish,  cover- 
ing the  eyes  in  shame,  or  the  ears  to  shut  out 
words  too  dreadful. 

Hands  instinct  with  emotion,  clasped  in  friend- 
ship, clenched  in  anger,  fisted  and  shaken  in  threat, 
pointing  in  admonition,  fidgeting  in  irritation,  pick- 
ing in  nervousness,  held  out  in  welcome,  waving 
in  farewells,  beckoning,  warning,  now  dancing 
like  butterflies,  now  quiet  in  sleep. 

Hands  moving  the  pen,  clicking  the  typwriter, 
185 


operating  the  linotype  machines,  setting  type, 
working  the  printing  press. 

Hands  creative,  drawing  sketches,  painting  pic- 
tures, decorating  walls,  carving  statues,  building 
houses,  making  dresses,  hats,  and  shoes,  weaving, 
spinning,  boring  with  augers,  smiting  with  ham- 
mers, pushing  with  planes,  cutting  with  chisels, 
severing  with  saws,  gauging  with  plumb-lines, 
measuring  with  tapes,  yardsticks,  and  surveyor's 
chains. 

Hands  of  them  that  do  the  world's  dirty  work. 
Hands  of  the  maid  who  scrubs  the  floor,  of  the 
Slav  woman  mopping  the  hall  in  the  office  building, 
bleached  hands  of  the  dishwasher,  strong,  red 
hands  of  the  washerwoman  slapping,  soaping,  and 
wringing  the  linen,  muscular  hands  grasping  the 
iron,  the  broom-stick,  the  mop-handle,  the  dust- 
cloth,  the  pots,  and  skillets. 

Hands  upon  the  locomotive  throttle,  upon  the 
automobile  steering-wheel,  upon  the  motorcycle 
handle,  upon  the  aeroplane  gear.  Hands  which  if 
but  negligent  or  awkward  a  second  would  bring 
death. 

Hands  drawing  back  the  bow-string,  pressing 
the  trigger  of  the  automatic  revolver,  manipulat- 
ing the  army  rifle,  loading  the  eight-inch  cannon, 
swinging  the  sandbag  and  the  lead  pipe,  holding 
the  brass  knuckles,  the  dagger,  the  club.  Hands 
of  crime,  individual  and  national. 

Hands  plying  the  whip  upon  little  children,  the 
cat-o'-nine-tails  upon  the  naked  backs  of  seamen, 

186 


instruments  of  torture  upon  heretics,  scourging  the 
Christ.     Hands  of  hate. 

Hands  of  the  surgeon  creeping  among  the 
mazes  of  life,  feeling  the  pulse,  delivering  the 
child,  holding  the  hypodermic  syringe,  the  lancet, 
the  stethoscope. 

Hands  of  fair  women,  combing  and  twisting 
the  hair,  powdering  the  face,  penciling  the  eye- 
brows, tying  ribbons,  patting  furbelows,  buttoning, 
hooking,  matching,  arranging. 

Hands  plump  and  baby-fat;  hands  dry,  old, 
veined,  like  a  tree-trunk.  Hands  manicured  and 
soft  as  velvet;  hands  gnarled,  twisted,  hard  as 
leather.  Hands  gloved  and  tender;  hands  brown, 
three-fingered,  scarred. 

Hands  hoeing,  plowing,  driving,  wheeling  bar- 
rows, handling  pitch-forks,  cleaning  stables,  dig- 
ging ditches,  making  gardens,  cultivating  farms. 

Hands  of  mothers  caressing  the  child's  cheek, 
of  nurses  smoothing  hot  brows,  of  lovers  piddling 
palms. 

Hands  folded  in  prayer,  upraised  in  benedic- 
tion, extended  in  excommunication. 

Busy  hands,  myriad-functioned,  spirit-moved, 
soul-impregnated,  the  moving  semaphores  of  life. 

Swarms  of  hands,  fluttering  as  birds;  beneath 
them  spring  up  giant  buildings,  monuments, 
bridges,  railways,  the  wonders  of  the  world. 

Hands  at  last  folded  forever  across  the  breast. 

At  last  Death,  and  the  sea  of  beckoning  spirit 
hands  of  them  that  have  gone  before. 

187 


RELIGION 

THERE  appeared  in  the  newspapers  the  other 
day  an  account  of  a  man  who  had  invented  a  new 
religion;  he  was  rewriting  the  Bible.  God  had 
revealed  certain  things  to  him. 

Among  the  truths  he  had  received  by  revela- 
tion were  these: 

There  are  ten  days  in  the  week,  instead  of 
seven;  their  names  are  Sabbath,  Air,  Water,  An- 
imals, Units,  Earth,  Plants,  Birds,  Man,  and 
Salvation.  Ten;  count  'em.  Instead  of  saying 
you  will  call  next  Tuesday  or  Friday,  you  would 
say  next  Animals  or  Birds. 

On  Salvation  he  celebrates  the  Lord's  Supper, 
which  consists  of  chocolate  drops. 

The  world  is  ten  million  and  two  years  old. 
The  year,  however,  is  not  all  what  you  think  it 
to  be.  It  is  composed  of  189  and  some  odd  tril- 
lions of  minutes. 

There  are  many  other  items  that  have  been 
communicated  to  him  from  heaven  by  private 
wire.  He  says :  "It  is  all  too  complicated  to  ex- 
plain till  you  see  it  all — then  it  is  so  beautifully 
simple."  Doesn't  that  sound  natural? 

The  author  of  this  made  his  money  by  invent- 
188 


ing  a  "hair  compound"  and  a  non-fillable  bottle, 
has  now  retired  from  business,  and  is  devoting  his 
energies  to  the  propagation  of  the  faith. 

Attention  is  called  to  this  case,  not  for  the  pur- 
pose of  ridiculing  this  man,  for  he  has  a  perfect 
right  to  believe  the  moon  is  made  of  green 
cheese  if  he  wants  to,  and  that  those  who  hold  to 
the  belief  that  it  is  camembert  will  be  eternally 
lost;  but  for  the  purpose  of  showing,  by  this 
strange  and  marked  instance,  the  curious  survival, 
in  the  popular  mind,  of  the  pagan  notion  of  re- 
ligion. 

Most  people  still  imagine  that  a  man's  religion 
consists  in  the  theories  or  fancies  he  entertains 
about  the  universe,  how  it  was  made  and  how  it 
will  be  destroyed;  also  his  acceptance  of  certain 
facts  of  history  and  his  idea  of  certain  facts  of 
the  future. 

I  will  say  nothing  of  the  popular  "beliefs"  of 
people,  because  they  are  unusually  sensitive  on 
that  point,  so  sensitive  indeed  that  it  is  not  con- 
sidered good  form  even  to  mention  them. 

But  at  least  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  attention 
to  what  religion  is. 

It  is  a  passion  for  righteousness.  As  Beecher 
used  to  say,  it  is  morality  touched  with  emotion. 

The  man  who  does  right  because  he  loves  it  is 
religious.  Whoever  does  wrong  because  he  loves 
it  is  irreligious.  And  whoso  does  right,  not  be- 
cause he  likes  to,  but  because  it  pays,  is  non-re- 
ligious. 

189 


That  is  the  core  of  the  matter,  the  substance ;  all 
the  rest  is  trimmings. 

When  one  loves  to  do  what  he  ought  to  do, 
when  ought  and  love  melt  into  one  thing,  he  is 
truly  religious. 

What  he  thinks  about  creation,  ancient  history, 
and  the  millennium  is  not  the  gist  of  the  thing. 

People  never  quarrel  over  their  religion,  they 
quarrel  over  their  fancies.  "All  good  men  are  of 
one  religion,"  said  the  philosopher. 

That  religion  is  the  love  of  right,  and  the  hate 
of  wrong.  The  only  "damnable  heretic"  is  the 
man  that  has  not  this  love  and  hate. 


190 


THE   SEX   AND   ALCOHOL 
BOMB-THROWERS 

IT  is  an  odd  state  of  things  that,  while  one's 
reputation  is  his  dearest  possession,  it  is  that  which 
is  least  protected  and  most  exposed  to  the  attack 
of  his  enemies. 

Ordinarily  when  a  man  is  slandered  he  can  but 
keep  silence  and  trust  to  his  record  and  to  the 
loyalty  of  his  friends,  because  retaliation  makes 
matters  worse.  But  the  blood  often  boils  at  the 
thought  of  the  infamous  power  of  the  mud-slinger. 

We  are  living  practically  under  a  government 
by  public  opinion,  which,  take  it  all  in  all,  is  about 
the  best  sort  of  government  yet  devised.  It  has, 
however,  its  drawbacks. 

A  reputation  is  the  work  of  years;  into  it  a 
man  puts  his  whole  life.  Any  malicious  human 
insect  can  destroy  it  in  a  moment,  or  damage  it. 

The  slanderer  is  on  a  level  with  the  bomb- 
thrower;  he  is  the  spiritual  nihilist.  With  a  few 
dollars'  worth  of  dynamite  the  anarchist  can  blow 
up  a  building;  with  a  few  choice  words  the  black- 
mailer can  wreck  a  family. 

The  two  standard  themes  favored  by  the  slan- 
derer are  sex  and  alcohol. 

191 


Speaking  of  alcohol,  perhaps  nothing  has  done 
more  to  alienate  good  people  from  the  various 
"temperance"  movements  that  from  time  to  time 
have  swept  the  country,  than  the  vicious  cruelty, 
not  to  say  nasty-mindedness,  of  those  whom  How- 
ard Crosby  used  to  call  "temperance  wild  beasts." 

I  remember  once  sitting  by  the  side  of  Presi- 
dent McKinley  at  a  banquet,  where  to  my  certain 
knowledge  he  took  one  sip  of  champagne  and  then 
pushed  his  wine  glasses  away.  The  next  day  he 
was  branded  as  a  "drinker"  by  the  prohibition 
papers,  and  I  heard  many  a  speech  and  read  many 
an  editorial  in  "religious"  papers,  condemning  him 
for  his  tippling.  This  is  more  than  unjust;  it  is 
nasty. 

In  all  sex  stories  people  have  a  morbid  interest. 
The  duty  of  newspapers  regarding  news  items  of 
this  kind  is  a  serious  one.  Some  publicity  for 
divorce  proceedings,  and  similar  cases  which  make 
good  reading  matter  solely  because  of  their  lubric- 
ity, is  doubtless  necessary.  But  the  temptation  to 
go  beyond  the  line  of  public  morals  is  tremendous, 
and  few  journals  are  without  blame. 

When  a  slanderer  owns  a  newspaper  what  is 
the  aggrieved  citizen  to  do?  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  Ben  Franklin,  himself  a  printer  as  well 
as  a  philosopher  and  statesman,  expressed  himself 
on  this  point.  He  insisted  that  there  should  be  no 
law  curbing  the  freedom  of  the  press,  but  saw 
that  a  man  unjustly  attacked  ought  to  have  some 

192 


redress,  and  therefore  suggested  that  he  be  al- 
lowed to  ulick  the  editor." 

Are  there  loop-holes  in  our  civilization,  cracks 
and  crevices  of  personal  rights  the  law  does  not 
cover?  Is  the  argument  of  fists  and  raw-hiding 
ever  justifiable  ?  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  yes ;  but 
if  there  do  exist  such  exceptional  instances  they  are 
those  where  the  cads  and  blackguards  make  use 
of  the  sex  or  alcohol  story  to  satisfy  their  dirty 
vengeance. 

I  confess  that  all  such  scandalous  exposures 
make  me  sick  at  the  stomach,  and  I  would  to  God 
we  might  somehow  be  spared  them. 


193 


WHY  MEN  WORK 

IN  proportion  as  a  man  is  a  true  man  he  is  a 
servant.  The  biggest  word  in  the  dictionary  is 
duty.  The  divinest  of  verbs  is  ought. 

To  grow  up  means  to  encounter  responsibility. 
The  world  is  full  of  Peter  Pans — that  is  to  say, 
of  men  and  women  who  shrink  from  the  burdens 
of  maturity. 

But  sooner  or  later  to  every  one  of  us  come 
the  burden  and  the  task.  We  flee  it,  we  dodge 
and  squirm,  but  it  pursues  us,  inevitable  and  stern. 

The  inner  ear  of  each  man's  soul  hears  the 
voice  of  Life :  "Find  your  work,  and  do  it !"  Only 
by  obedience  to  this  command  can  he  find  peace. 
If  he  disobeys,  by  and  by  comes  fate,  with  a  per- 
suasive word  or  with  a  "grievous  crab-tree  cudgel," 
with  tragedy  and  thorns,  or  with  nausea  and  weari- 
ness, and  drives  him  to  his  place. 

The  world  is  governed  and  kept  going  by  a  few 
strong  instincts;  but  among  these  not  the  least  is 
that  feeling  that  cannot  be  sponged  from  the  hu- 
man heart,  the  feeling  that  "I  have  a  work  to  do, 
and  how  am  I  straitened  until  it  be  accomplished !" 

There  never  was  a  more  superficial,  cheap,  and 
nasty  delusion  than  that  men  work  only  for  gain, 

194 


and  that  if  you  take  away  wages  and  the  hope  of 
becoming  wealthy  all  human  kind  would  lapse 
into  laziness. 

The  contrary  is  true.  No  really  good  work  was 
ever  done  for  a  reward.  The  best  work  of  the 
world,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  work  of  the 
world,  is  done  for  the  same  reason  that  children 
play;  it  is  because  men  would  be  wretched  without 
activity,  because  unless  men  produce,  create,  and 
play  the  mighty  game  of  business  they  die  of  the 
worm. 

Work  is  the  normal  functioning  of  the  adult. 
Mankind  builds  bridges,  bores  tunnels,  constructs 
ocean  liners,  erects  skyscrapers,  paints  pictures, 
writes  books,  and  grinds  flour  because  there  is  joy 
and  health. 

A  man  with  no  job,  with  no  part  of  life's  burden 
accepted  and  carried,  is  no  man.  He  bears  the 
same  relation  to  humanity  that  flies  and  snakes 
bear.  He  is  a  curse  and  an  incubus. 

And  is  it  not  singular  that  one  great  desire 
seems  to  be  to  lay  up  enough  money  so  that  our 
children  "will  not  have  to  work"? 

Let  us  thank  God  that  riches  have  wings,  for 
if  they  should  remain  fixed  their  leaden  weight 
would  asphyxiate  the  world. 


195 


THE  TREE  OF  TREES 

I  HAVE  never  been  there,  but  I  want  to  go ;  to 
the  country  of  Mexico,  to  the  town  of  Oaxaca, 
thence  east  two  and  a  half  leagues  to  the  village  of 
Santa  Maria  del  Tule,  and  there  in  the  graveyard 
to  look  upon  a  tree,  the  oldest  known  living  thing 
on  the  planet,  to  sit  in  its  shelter,  to  put  my  hand 
upon  its  trunk,  to  feel  its  shade  penetrate  my  soul 
with  such  a  sense  of  years  as  no  other  terrestrial 
object  can  give. 

If  I  were  a  heathen  man  I  should  worship  not 
only  the  sun  but  the  tree.  Of  all  plant  life  the 
tree  seems  nearest  man. 

At  the  traditional  beginning  of  human  existence 
is  the  tree  of  knowledge  in  the  Garden  of  Eden; 
at  the  end  the  tree  of  life  in  Heaven. 

The  tree  is  man's  storehouse,  furnishing  him 
with  shelter,  food,  building  material,  furniture, 
and  weapons.  It  is  mankind's  oldest  friend. 

Victor  Hugo  points  out  how  the  river  with  its 
tributaries  is  made  upon  the  pattern  of  the  tree 
with  its  branches.  Look  at  your  map  and  see  the 
tree-like  lines  of  the  Amazon  and  the  Mississippi. 

This  tree  of  Mexico  is  fifty  centuries  old.  It 
196 


was  old  when  Adam,  Eve  and  the  Devil  were  play- 
ing their  three-cornered  tragedy  in  Paradise. 

It  heard  from  the  winds  the  stories  of  the  rise 
and  fall  of  Babylon,  Nineveh,  and  the  obliterated 
civilization  of  Yucatan. 

Primeval  monsters  have  lounged  in  its  shade, 
ape-men  have  fought  beside  it,  its  memory  goes 
back  to  when  there  were  no  men. 

Long,  silent  ages  it  lived  before  the  Norsemen 
ever  saw  the  New  World,  or  Columbus  sighted 
its  islands,  or  Cortez  butchered  its  inhabitants. 
But  it  was  old  when  Europe  was  a  wilderness  and 
England  a  savage  isle. 

It  is  older  than  any  monument  made  by  human 
hands;  beside  it  the  pyramids  are  young,  the  tem- 
ples of  Karnak  and  Luxor,  even  the  sculptured 
bricks  of  Birs  Nimrod. 

The  giant  sequoias  of  California  were  found 
by  John  Muir  to  have  lived  but  4,000  years,  mere 
babes  compared  to  the  cypress  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Tule. 

Life,  so  ephemeral  and  fluctuating  a  thing,  has 
here  its  strangest  home,  an  organism  that  outspans 
the  history  of  a  race. 

About  it  go  the  insects  that  live  but  a  day  and 
the  human  creatures  that  may  live  fourscore  years; 
to  the  tree  they  seem  the  same. 

Some  day  I  shall  go  there.  I  shall  linger  under 
its  branches  to  see  if  I  can  hear  in  its  sighing  leaves 
some  whisper  of  eternity.  I  shall  touch  its  bark, 
and  it  will  seem  as  if  I  had  clasped  the  rugged 

197 


hand  of  one  of  the  demiurges  who  helped  make 
the  world.  My  heart  shall  feed  upon  the  cen- 
turies. Time  and  the  small  concerns  of  my  life 
will  drop  from  me  as  a  garment  and  I  shall  feel 
the  thrill  of  that  saying,  "From  everlasting  to 
everlasting." 

That  is  why  I  want  some  time  to  go  to  Mexico 
and  to  Oaxaca,  thence  east  two  leagues  and  a  half 
to  Santa  Maria  del  Tule,  and  to  the  graveyard 
there,  and  to  the  tree  of  trees. 


198 


WHEN  THE  SLEEPER  WAKES 

MOST  of  our  life  we  are  asleep,  not  only  when 
we  are  unconscious  in  our  beds,  but  also  when  we 
are  walking  about. 

Plato's  idea  was  that  the  best  of  what  we  think 
in  this  life  consists  in  a  few  things  we  remember 
from  a  previous  existence;  and  Wordsworth  said 
that  "our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting." 

Sometimes  there  conies  to  us  a  sharp  conscious- 
ness of  the  unreality  of  our  existence.  The  sense 
of  its  dream  stuff  invades  us.  We  and  all  men 
and  women  seem  somnambulists. 

The  daily  round  captures  us.  We  become  be- 
numbed by  the  humdrum.  We  can  do  nothing 
without  system,  and  system  dulls  us.  So  we  sink 
into  a  kind  of  dim  dream  life,  in  which  we  rise, 
eat,  go  to  business,  to  amusement,  to  bed. 

This  outward  routine  stains  our  inward  thought. 
We  feel  as  if  we  were  a  little  spiritual  tooth  in  the 
immense  cog-wheel  of  the  universe.  Life  loses  its 
wonder.  We  are  surprised  at  nothing,  as  in 
dreams. 

Then  come  those  things  destiny  has  set  for  our 
wakening;  sharp  spines  of  pain,  thunder  crashes 
of  tragedy,  lightning  darts  of  disaster;  or  perhaps 

199 


the  comic,  for  sometimes  a  smile  or  gibe  can  "stab 
us  wide  awake"  better  than  the  surgical  blade  of 
sorrow. 

Sometimes  the  alarm  clock  of  the  soul  is  but  a 
mood,  a  "moment  of  mental  splendor,"  a  natural 
cloud-lifting  of  the  spirit.  This  spirit  illumination 
we  can  once  and  again  trace  to  a  physical  cause, 
to  the  stomach  or  liver  or  the  sex  feeling,  by  that 
strange  wiring  together  of  body  and  soul.  An- 
other time  it  will  be  due  apparently  to  a  friend, 
an  event,  or  some  other  exteriority.  Or  it  may 
occur  for  no  discernible  cause. 

But,  however  the  waking  may  take  place,  it  is 
an  hour  when,  to  use  the  language  of  John  Mase- 
field,  "we  have  suggestions  of  something  bigger 
than  ourselves,  suggestions  of  reality,  beauty,  and 
order,  apprehensions  of  something  stable,  behind 
the  flowing  and  ebbing  of  life,  and  apprehensions 
of  something  divine,  some  quality  of  mind  or  soul 
outside  us,  more  real  than  we." 

The  woman  in  society  has  one  of  these  mo- 
ments, a  shattering  vision  of  what  her  life  might 
mean  if  it  were  real.  The  woman  over  her  wash- 
tub  stops,  looks  up — a  thought  has  whipped  her 
tired  mind  awake ;  it  is  but  a  passing  glimpse,  and 
life  descends  again  into  the  suds.  The  business 
man  leaves  the  papers  on  his  desk  and  looks  far 
away;  his  soul  rises  a  moment  into  what  life  might 
be,  as  a  flying  fish  leaps  a  gleaming  flash  into  the 
air. 

Death  is  the  supreme  awakener.  Then  the 
200 


usual  and  crowding  affairs  of  existence,  that 
seemed  so  weighty,  dissolve  into  their  true  noth- 
ingness, and  the  great  realities  rise  like  moons 
upon  the  soul. 

The  dream  is  over.     When  the  body  goes  to 
its  last  bed  the  soul  gets  up. 


201 


HUMAN  NATURE 

POOR  human  nature  seems  to  be  the  goat. 

If  anything  is  the  matter  with  your  scheme, 
blame  it  on  human  nature.  Your  ideas,  plans,  in- 
stitutions, theories  and  conspiracies  are  of  course 
all  right;  they  break  down  because  they  have  only 
faulty  human  nature  to  deal  with. 

For  a  thousand  years  or  so  theologians  insisted 
that  human  nature  is  as  full  of  meanness  as  drug 
store  ice  cream  is  full  of  bacilli.  It  is  still  con- 
sidered a  self-evident  platitude  that  man  is  by 
nature  low-down  and  hankering  to  plunge  into 
crime.  All  that  holds  him  back  seems  to  be  Mrs. 
Grundy,  policemen,  fear  and  hell  fire. 

All  of  which  I  do  not  in  the  least  believe.  On 
the  contrary,  human  nature  is  a  deal  better  than 
any  institution  or  theory  it  has  ever  produced. 

Human  nature  is  better  than  any  laws  made  to 
govern  it.  It  is  better  than  all  governments  that 
undertake  to  regulate  it.  It  has  more  inborn  good- 
ness than  all  the  reformers  who  are  trying  to  im- 
prove it. 

It  was  human  nature  that  made  life  tolerable 
under  the  tyranny  of  ancient  Rome,  and  livable 
during  the  filth  and  darkness  of  medievalism. 

202 


It  is  human  nature  that  antidotes  the  crazy  nar- 
rowness of  the  fanatic,  alleviates  the  merciless 
processes  of  business,  and  tempers  the  cold  arro- 
gance of  science. 

Human  nature  sprouts  up  eternally,  as  the  wild 
flcvvers  in  the  woods,  and  not  all  the  barren  ex- 
cellences of  civilization  can  kill  it. 

It  is  not  law  nor  gospel,  it  is  human  nature,  that 
makes  mothers  love  their  little  babies,  husbands 
and  wives  cling  together  for  better  or  for  worse, 
strong  people  care  for  the  weak  and  aged;  that 
makes  children  happy,  grown  folks  industrious, 
and  old  persons  content;  that  keeps  rich  people 
charitable  and  poor  people  brave. 

"Your  millennial  schemes  are  good  enough,"  it 
is  said,  "if  it  were  not  for  human  nature.  It  is 
that  which  prevents  your  having  the  ideal  school, 
ideal  state,  ideal  church,  and  ideal  society."  This 
is  not  true.  For  it  is  precisely  human  nature 
which,  if  we  would  but  believe  in  it  and  give  it 
free  course,  would  speedily  make  the  ideal  real. 

It  is  conventions,  customs,  institutions,  and  all 
such  fearsome  ghost-powers  of  the  past  which 
thwart  the  wholesome  impulses  of  living  men  and 
women. 

All  systems  built  upon  a  contempt  of  human 
nature  go  down.  That  is  why  criminal  laws  that 
are  inhuman  are  futile,  and  that  is  why  prisons 
increase  crime.  That  is  why  bloodthirsty  creeds 
have  been  driven  away.  That  is  why  tyrannies 
perish  in  revolution. 

203 


Whoever  despises  common  human  nature  be- 
comes cynical,  and  often  vicious  and  perverted. 
Whoever  believes  in  human  nature  is  on  the  way 
to  become  normal,  kind,  and  wise. 

Monarchies,  aristocracies,  and  all  things  built 
upon  the  belief  that  men  are  essentially  bad  and 
ignorant,  by  and  by  perish. 

Democracy  is  eternal,  ever  green,  and  per- 
petually young,  because  it  is  based  upon  confidence 
in  human  nature. 

That  the  people  are  not  to  be  trusted,  and  need 
guides  of  strong  hand  and  leaders  and  superior 
folk  to  prevent  them  from  folly,  is  the  delusion 
of  the  short-sighted.  What  the  people  need  is 
to  be  let  alone,  to  be  loved  and  to  be  trusted. 

God  does  not  live  in  throne  rooms,  universities 
and  pulpits ;  He  lives  among  the  throng. 

Abraham  Lincoln  is  the  greatest  American  be- 
cause he  most  utterly  believed  in  the  people. 

Jesus  Christ's  spiritual  leadership  holds,  be- 
cause He  trusted  human  nature  and  appealed  to 
"the  common  people,"  who  "heard  him  gladly." 


204 


THE  AMERICAN  SOUL 

THE  generally  accepted  platitude  is  that  the 
typical  American  is  dollar-mad,  that  all  he  lives 
for  is  to  accumulate  more  wealth  and  to  splurge 
therewith. 

Like  most  bromidions  this  is  a  cheap  and  sur- 
face judgment. 

The  American  race  is  a  new  species  of  man. 
Although  we  speak  the  English  language  we  are 
no  more  like  the  English  people  than  the  Romans 
were  like  the  Greeks.  In  fact,  the  traveller  is 
likely  to  find  the  French  or  German  more  like  the 
American  than  is  the  British. 

This  new  race  has  one  chief  characteristic;  it  is 
force. 

An  Italian,  Dr.  Carito,  has  recently  published 
a  book,  "In  the  Land  of  Washington,"  with  a 
sub-title,  "My  Impressions  of  the  North  Amer- 
ican Psyche."  Studying  us  from  the  viewpoint 
of  a  psychologist,  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that 
Americans  are  not  all  engaged  in  "the  Bacchic 
worship  of  wealth,"  but  that  this  is  but  one  symp- 
tom of  the  tremendous  life-power  of  the  people, 
and  that  theirs  is  "a  soul  of  iron  whose  life  is  a 
struggle  for  the  attainment  of  ideals  which  are 

205 


the  more  intoxicating  the  more  difficult  they  be- 
come." Here  is  one  foreigner  who  seems  to  un- 
derstand. 

For  instead  of  being  materialistic  and  sordid 
we  are  the  most  idealistic  race  the  world  has  ever 
seen. 

We  have  gone  into  business,  not  as  other  peo- 
ples, as  an  ugly  necessity,  but  because  business  is 
the  worthiest  functioning  of  common  activity. 
Our  trusts  are  due  to  the  application  of  ideals  to 
business;  above  all,  the  great  ideal  of  co-operation, 
leading  at  last  to  a  nation-wide  unification  of  pro- 
duction, transportation,  and  merchandising.  We 
do  not  call  it  socialism;  we  call  it  common  sense 
and  waste  saving.  Men  of  the  future  will  see  the 
vast  ideality  of  such  men  as  Marshall  Field,  James 
J.  Hill,  and  J.  P.  Morgan. 

The  luxury,  cruelty,  and  other  alleged  crimes 
attendant  upon  making  the  nation  a  huge  consoli- 
dated business  organization  are  the  usual  human 
frailties  incident  to  every  great  world  movement. 

No  nation  is  so  sensitive  to  spiritual  appeal  as 
ours.  Honesty,  industry,  self-sacrifice,  and  hero- 
ism are  sure  of  finding  quick  appreciation,  though 
we  grow  more  and  more  impatient  of  the  marking 
time  of  ecclesiasticism. 

Underneath  all  our  graft  in  government  lies  the 
protesting  conscience  of  the  masses,  only  waiting 
to  be  shown  just  what  to  do  to  remove  the  evil. 
We  are  still  enshrouded  in  the  ignorance  of  our 
times,  which  accepts  the  old,  inherited,  rotten  sys- 

206 


tern  of  political  parties  as  the  only  means  of  man- 
aging a  state.  It  is  big  business  itself  that  will 
one  day  find  a  way  to  abolish  this  absurd  method 
of  government  by  graft,  and  substitute  a  rational 
organized  democracy  not  organized  for  claptrap 
and  offices,  but  organized  to  do  business. 

The  American  is  the  optimist  of  the  world,  be- 
cause he  is  conscious  of  his  power  to  remedy  evil 
conditions.  He  fears  no  outward  foe  nor  inward 
weakness.  He  attacks  the  future  unafraid  of  la- 
bors or  dangers. 


207 


SPORT  VERSUS   PLAY 

PLAY  is  activity  exerted  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
exertion. 

It  differs  from  work  in  that  work  is  activity  ex- 
erted for  some  pleasure  to  result  from  the  exer- 
tion. 

Words,  like  people,  have  all  sorts  of  relations — 
some  respectable  and  others  that  trail  off  into  all 
degrees  of  disrepute. 

One  of  the  questionable  relatives  of  play  is 
sport. 

Sport  is  play  with  a  list.  It  is  play  twisted,  ab- 
normal, more  or  less  off  color. 

Play  is  found  in  its  pure  state  mostly  among 
children.  Grown-ups,  as  a  rule,  lose  the  art. 
Look  out  of  the  window  any  day,  or  pass  by  the 
school  yard,  and  you  can  see  Simon-pure  play — 
children  engaged  in  the  games  of  leap-frog,  foot- 
and-a-half,  marbles,  hop-scotch,  tag,  prisoner's 
base,  and  pussy-wants-a-corner. 

Not  one  adult  in  five  hundred  has  sense  enough 
to  take  part  in  such  pastimes  as  these. 

Having  forgotten  how  to  play  we  have  invented 
sport. 

Play  is  fun ;  sport  is  alleged  fun. 
208 


Billiards,  pool,  bowling,  poker,  horse  racing, 
joy  riding,  and  turkey  trotting  bear  about  the 
same  relation  to  real  play  that  the  glow  of  fever 
or  alcoholic  excess  bears  to  the  glow  from  skip- 
ping the  rope. 

Play  is  simple,  natural,  inevitable.  Sport  is 
complex,  conventional,  unrestful. 

Play  tones  the  body  and  mind.  Sport  leads  to 
various  morbidities. 

Americans  call  it  sport  when  fifty  thousand  of 
them  sit  for  two  hours  on  the  bleachers  and  watch 
eighteen  men  work  at  baseball.  Children  would 
never  do  that.  They  would  not  be  happy  unless 
they  could  climb  down  and  get  in  the  game. 

Neither  could  children  be  induced  to  sit  up  all 
night  in  a  room  reeking  with  the  fumes  of  whiskey 
and  tobacco  and  bet  on  cards;  for  this  is  not  play; 
it  is  a  species  of  neurasthenia. 

The  reason  modern  adults  cannot  play  is  that 
they  are  insane.  They  have  accepted  the  absurd 
gospel  of  getting  on,  which  always  produces  in- 
sanity. The  cream  of  their  energy  is  devoted  to 
driving,  scheming,  and  working  in  order  to  obtain 
more  money,  finer  houses,  richer  clothing,  and 
more  lackeys  than  other  people  have.  They  sell 
their  health  of  body  and  mind  for  precedence, 
pride,  and  publicity.  Those  who  fail  talk  suicide. 
Those  who  succeed  are  nervous  wrecks. 

It  is  the  ambition  of  most  of  us  to  be  finally  idle. 
To  have  enough  money  to  do  nothing  is  our 
heaven  here  below. 

209 


Sport  is  the  play  of  the  idle,  and  the  idle  can- 
not play. 

The  canon  of  sport  is  fixed,  as  most  of  our  rot- 
ten social  notions  are  fixed,  by  the  idle  class  of 
Europe  who  have  perhaps  done  more  to  de- 
bauch the  world  than  any  class,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern. Fox  hunting  and  grouse  shooting  in  the  open 
and  drunkenness  and  gambling  in  the  house  are 
sports  de  luxe,  with  the  hall  mark  of  aristocracy 
upon  them. 

Perhaps  the  most  terrible  indictment  that  can  be 
brought  against  the  city  is  that  it  has  plenty  of 
luxurious  clubs  for  the  diseased  sport  of  nervously 
wrecked  adults,  and  no  playgrounds  for  children. 

"The  modern  world,"  said  Professor  Ferrero 
at  the  Lucerne  Congress,  "is  paying  nature's  price 
for  the  excesses  to  which  it  gives  way — a  price  that 
takes  the  form  of  nervous  diseases,  madness,  sui- 
cide, and  sterility.  Those  who  attempt  to  lead  it 
back  to  a  saner  ideal  of  life  render  it  a  service 
the  need  of  which  is  best  shown  by  the  fury  with 
which  the  ideal  is  apparently  rejected. 


210 


IF  I   HAD  A   MILLION   DOLLARS 

I  WISH  I  had  a  million  dollars,  you  say,  I  could 
do  so  much  good  with  it.  There  are  so  many  I 
would  like  to  help.  It  would  be  such  a  pleasure 
to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  this  poor  family,  to 
assist  that  struggling  young  man,  and  to  con- 
tribute generously  to  the  church  and  the  hospital. 
I  know  I  would  not  be  as  selfish  as  many  rich  peo- 
ple are.  If  I  had  a  million  I  would  gratify  my 
generous  impulses. 

Stop  right  there !  Your  imagination  is  mislead- 
ing you.  If  you  had  a  million  dollars  you  would 
be  no  more  liberal  than  you  are  now. 

Helpfulness  does  not  depend  on  the  size  of  your 
income.  If  you  are  doing  nothing  for  others  on 
your  present  income  of  fifty  dollars  a  month  you 
would  do  the  same  if  you  had  fifty  thousand  a 
month.  You  would  be  just  as  wrapped  up  in  your 
own  sweet  self  as  you  are  now — and  wrappeder. 

For  it  is  a  well  established  fact  that  one's 
altruistic  impulses  decrease  in  force  as  one's 
wealth  grows. 

The  kindest,  most  generous,  and  charitable  peo- 
ple in  the  world  are  those  who  have  little  or  noth- 
ing. The  best  friends  to  the  poor  are  the  other 
poor. 

211 


I  have  in  mind  now  one  of  the  most  benevolent 
women  I  ever  knew.  She  is  always  thinking  of 
others.  She  sends  flowers  to  her  friends  upon  just 
the  right  occasions,  she  has  delicious  soup  sent  to 
certain  people  in  whom  she  is  interested  in  the 
hospitals,  she  plans  in  various  societies  to  help 
needy  children,  she  is  a  real  "trouble  woman,"  for 
wherever  there  is  trouble  there  is  she,  to  hold  the 
nervous  hand,  to  smooth  the  hot  brow,  and  to  give 
of  her  full  cheer  and  hope  to  them  that  need.  She 
is  not  rich  in  pocket;  she  has  the  true  riches,  of 
the  heart,  riches  that  moth  and  rust  do  not  corrupt 
nor  thieves  break  through  and  steal. 

And  you,  if  you  have  the  root  of  the  matter  in 
you,  can  be  as  benevolent  as  the  most  lavish  mil- 
lionaire. What  you  need  is  not  money,  it  is  dis- 
position. 

For  the  one  thing  to  give  in  this  world,  the  one 
thing  that  is  worth  while,  the  one  thing  that  cheers 
us  all  up  and  adds  ozone  to  the  soul,  is — yourself. 

The  great  gifts  of  the  rich — it  is  doubtful  if 
they  do  any  good  after  all.  I  have  my  suspicions 
of  them.  But  whoso  gives  himself,  his  time,  his 
thought,  his  attention,  his  care,  he  is  the  world's 
real  benefactor. 

"This  world  is  so  waste  and  empty,"  says 
Goethe,  in  his  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  "when  we  fig- 
ure but  towns  and  hills  and  rivers  in  it,  but  to 
know  that  some  one  is  living  on  with  us,  even  in 
silence,  this  makes  our  earthly  ball  a  peopled  gar- 
den." 

212 


INVINCIBLE   IGNORANCE 

THE  Chesterton  case  in  England  brought  forth 
from  the  mouth  of  the  presiding  judge  a  new 
phrase,  "invincible  ignorance." 

Only  once  in  a  while  does  a  consummate  expres- 
sion like  Grant's  "unconditional  surrender"  or 
Grover  Cleveland's  "innocuous  desuetude,"  or 
Mayor  Gaynor's  "spissitude"  capture  the  ears  of 
the  world.  The  felicitous  epithet  is  as  epochal  as 
the  great  poem  or  the  popular  air,  and  as  in- 
explicable. 

Wherefore,  re  "invincible  ignorance,"  let  us 
animadvert,  annotate,  gloss,  and  gently  expound. 

Item :  The  phrase  in  question  means  ignorance 
that  cannot  be  conquered  by  evidence  and  reason. 
Query:  Is  there  any  "vincible  ignorance"?  An- 
swer: There  is  not;  for  when  you  find  ignorance 
that  knows  itself  and  is  hospitable  to  persuasion, 
verily  it  is  not  ignorance  at  all,  but  wisdom  of  the 
highest  type. 

Item:  While  facts  are  proverbially  stubborn 
yet  in  this  connection  it  might  be  well  to  point  out 
that  non-facts  are  a  deal  stubborner. 

Item:  The  royal  refuge  and  ermine  robe  of 
"invincible  ignorance"  is  that  gilded  humbug 

213 


called  "superiority,"  particularly  superiority  of 
blood,  race,  or  family;  which  is  manifest  in  them 
that  hold  to  the  following  creeds : 

That  the  Joneses  are  all  better  than  the  Smiths ; 

That  Negroes,  Japanese,  and  Chinese  are  by 
nature  inferior  to  American  white  folks; 

That  civilization,  Christianity,  and  culture  are 
coterminous  with  stovepipe  hats,  pie,  and  Wednes- 
day evening  meeting. 

And  that  people  who  have  money  they  never 
earned,  especially  those  who  inherit  money,  are 
of  a  better  brand  of  flesh  than  those  who  work  for 
a  living. 

The  trouble  with  the  man  Chesterton  is  that 
he  is  a  Jew-baiter.  When  one  lets  in  race  or  class 
prejudice  at  the  door,  his  intelligence  flies  out  of 
the  window. 

Item :  Is  it  not  curious  that  we  cannot  say  "in- 
vincible knowledge,"  for  all  knowledge  is  amend- 
able and  teachable ;  and  that  it  is  ignorance  alone 
that  is  granite  hard? 

Item:  The  populace,  by  that  instinctive  art  it 
has  of  seizing  and  picturesquely  expressing  truth, 
has  already  furnished  a  shorter  and  a  harder  word 
for  the  possessors  of  "invincible  ignorance,"  to 
wit:  "Bonehead." 

And  the  hymn  of  the  bonehead  is :  "Verily,  we 
are  the  people,  and  when  we  die  wisdom  shall  die 
with  us." 


214 


THE   CABARET 

I  WANT  to  raise  my  feeble  voice  in  protest 
against  the  cabaret.  Not  that  it  is  immoral,  for  I 
don't  belong  to  the  order  of  militant  purifiers,  but 
that  it  is  an  unmitigated  nuisance. 

I  don't  like  it.  There  may  be  many  who  do  like 
it.  They  have  a  right  to  their  taste.  But  as  one 
small  integer  of  the  human  race  I  also  have  a 
right  to  mine.  And,  as  I  said,  I  don't  like  it. 
Whereto  I  set  down  herewith  the  following 
specifications,  to  wit,  namely: 

Eating  is  to  me  a  social  function.  I  don't  like 
to  feed  alone,  like  a  stalled  ox.  I  like  to  dine  with 
friends  and  temper  the  sensual  gratification  of  the 
palate  with  chit-chat  and  a  good  story.  And  the 
presence  of  a  bunch  of  musicians  pounding  and 
scraping  and  singing  with  all  their  might  and  main 
renders  intellectual  intercourse  impossible.  I 
don't  like  to  eat  in  a  boiler  factory. 

Secondly,  I  don't  like  the  kind  of  alleged  music 
the  American  cabaret  serves.  I  am  tired  of  rag- 
time and  smut  songs.  Once  in  a  while  I  enjoy 
seeing  a  young  man  play  the  fool,  or  a  young 
woman  dance  and  chortle,  but  when  I  get  it  every 
day  it  grows  wearisome. 

215 


If  I  could  dine,  as  in  Germany,  in  an  outdoor 
garden,  where  the  din  has  a  chance  to  escape,  or 
in  a  restaurant  where  a  string  orchestra  plays  sub- 
dued strains  (and  plays  the  kind  of  music  one 
likes  to  hear  over  and  over),  it  might  do;  but  to 
consume  food  while  a  human  jumping-jack  is 
prancing  around  among  the  tables  tempers  diges- 
tion with  fear  and  tends  to  produce  gastritis. 

Furthermore,  my  crankiness  extends  so  far  that 
I  particularly  object  to  the  human  voice  raised  in 
gladsome  noise  while  I  am  ordering  my  fillet  of 
celery  a  la  Kalamazoo  or  my  grilled  beans  a  la 
Parker  House.  I  get  mixed.  I  try  to  follow  the 
singer's  words,  which  to  follow  is  impossible.  The 
singer  who  can  enunciate  English  intelligibly  is  yet 
unborn.  In  the  effort  to  decipher  the  bill  of  fare, 
printed  in  home-made  French,  and  the  song,  which 
is  rendered  in  Choctaw,  I  am  tempted  to  imitate 
the  desperate  Californian  who  wrestled  awhile 
with  a  Frenchified  menu  and  finally,  in  despair,  or- 
dered $100  worth  of  ham  and  eggs. 

Again,  as  one  of  the  most  famous  restaurant 
men  of  New  York  said  the  other  day,  the  cabaret 
is,  on  account  of  its  expense,  lowering  the  quality 
of  the  food  offered.  I  believe  in  good  eating.  The 
preparation  of  food  is  one  of  the  fine  arts.  So  is 
music.  But  the  one  should  not  be  all  gummed  up 
by  the  other. 

The  cabaret  invasion  is  resulting  in  ill-cooked 
food,  the  bad  effects  of  which  one  is  supposed  to 
drown  with  booze  and  minstrelsy. 

216 


If  somebody  will  tell  me  where  I  can  go  and 
find  dishes  carefully  prepared  by  a  genius  who 
loves  to  cook  and  knows  how,  where  I  can  be 
waited  on  by  a  gentleman  or  lady  who  does  not 
plump  my  viands  down  and  go  away  forever,  and 
where  I  can  take  a  friend  to  dine  leisurely  and  in 
such  quiet  as  will  permit  conversation,  I  shall  be 
grateful. 


217 


THE   SECOND-RATER 

ON  June  2,  1913,  Alfred  Austin,  poet  laureate 
of  England,  died  in  his  seventy-ninth  year,  at  his 
residence  in  Kent. 

He  did  not  impress  the  literary  world  with  the 
feeling  that  he  was  of  poet  laureate  calibre,  and 
was  more  generally  criticized  than  applauded. 

There  is  much  speculation  as  to  whom  Premier 
Asquith  will  appoint  as  his  successor.  Kipling 
comes  naturally  first  to  mind,  as  he  is  by  common 
consent  the  English  poet  with  the  most  unmis- 
takable genius.  No  rhymester  can  equal  him  in 
putting  into  apt  expression  the  passion  of  his  peo- 
ple. He  is,  however,  a  violent  partisan  and  his 
nomination  for  the  post  would  be  fought  furiously. 
William  Watson  is  of  Tennysonian  rank  in  the 
estimation  of  many,  but  he  is  entirely  too  erratic 
for  the  place.  Thomas  Hardy  is  mentioned,  but 
his  record  upon  certain  themes  is  against  him. 

The  probability  is  that  the  honor  will  go  to 
some  second-rate  man. 

And,  come  to  think  of  it,  the  honors  usually  go 
to  the  second-rater. 

It  may  sound  cynical,  but  it  is  undeniable,  that 
the  human  race,  as  a  rule,  passes  by  its  great  men 

218 


and  selects  those  of  inferior  grade  for  positions  of 
great  dignity,  authority,  and  emolument. 

Weak-kneed  Pontius  Pilate  was  the  ruler  of  the 
Jews  and  tolerably  well  accepted;  they  found  noth- 
ing better  to  do  with  the  greatest  man  in  the  world 
when  He  happened  among  them  than  to  crucify 
Him. 

The  Greeks  ostracized  one  of  their  wisest 
statesmen  because  they  were  bored  with  hearing 
him  called  "The  Just" ;  and  poisoned  the  greatest 
philosopher  of  all  time. 

The  Florentines  banished  Dante  and  burnt 
Savonarola,  but  willingly  bowed  their  necks  to  the 
rule  of  the  corrupt  Medici. 

It  is  hard  to  find  a  bishop  that  ever  amounted 
to  much;  only  such  castouts  as  Luther,  Wesley, 
and  Booth  seem  to  have  the  divine  fire  we  look  for 
in  prophets. 

The  Hohenzollerns,  Bourbons,  Wettins,  and 
Romanoffs,  the  grand  life-job  holders  of  Europe, 
might  possibly  earn  $50  a  month  on  their  own 
merits,  but  it  is  doubtful.  There  has  never  ap- 
peared anything  resembling  the  superman  among 
them. 

The  average  millionaire  in  America  is  totally 
unfit,  by  temper,  genius,  and  morals,  to  be  in  pos- 
session of  the  vast  influence  of  money. 

This  is  not  cheap,  railing  language.  It  is  plain 
fact  and  common  sense,  which  it  would  be  well  for 
all  aspiring  youth  who  feel  the  lure  of  "greatness" 
to  heed. 

219 


More  than  virtue,  greatness  is  strictly  "its  own 
reward."  It  is  quite  sure  to  develop  such  idio- 
syncrasy as  to  make  it  unpopular.  It  is  rather  cer- 
tain to  raise  up  such  a  storm  of  opposition  that  its 
possessor  could  not  be  elected  keeper  of  the  vil- 
lage pound. 

Greatness  consists  in  vision  of  the  eternal  truth, 
which  the  populace  eternally  disbelieve. 

The  desire  to  rule,  to  be  prominent,  to  be  the 
rage,  to  control  great  wealth,  to  be  served  and 
flattered,  is  small,  and  besets  small  souls. 

It  is  the  desire  to  express  one's  self  truly,  to 
serve  men,  to  follow  the  gleam  and  to  satisfy  the 
exactions  of  one's  own  self-respect,  that  makes  a 
man  great. 

Few  such  men  get  high  offices. 


220 


HO!   FOR  THE  BAY  OF  SHIMA! 

COME,  sisters,  let  us  go  to  the  Bay  of  Shima, 
on  the  Pacific  coast  of  Japan.  Why  bother  about 
England  and  the  United  States,  where  males  are 
tyrants  and  women  voteless?  Over  yonder  the 
women  do  all  the  work,  which  consists  in  diving 
for  pearls,  while  the  men  loaf. 

The  women  spend  ten  hours  daily  in  the  water, 
earning  a  living.  The  men  sit  around  and  smoke. 

I  have  always  wanted  to  have  my  wife  go  into 
business  and  support  the  family.  Unfortunately, 
she  will  not  do  it.  I  must  perforce  work  for  a 
living. 

Think  of  having  your  women  folks  run  a  board- 
ing house  or  a  millinery  shop,  while  you  just  bask 
in  the  sun,  out  in  front,  with  your  chair  tilted  up 
against  the  wall.  There  you  can  gossip  with  your 
neighbors,  joke  with  the  other  loafers,  note  the 
pretty  girls,  and  argue  about  politics,  while  from 
within  comes  the  sound  of  the  sewing  machine  or 
the  odor  of  ham  and  eggs.  You  are  called  in  to 
eat.  After  dinner  you  go  down  to  the  postoffice 
and  argue  some  more.  Is  it  not  an  ideal  exist- 
ence? Can  you  wonder  that  we  favor  women's 
rights? 

221 


And  then  have  you  ever  noticed  the  rare  devo- 
tion a  wife  pays  to  a  shiftless,  no-account,  and 
brutal  husband?  It  is  wonderful.  No  decent, 
hard-working  man  can  hope  for  the  Newfound- 
land-dog-like  affection  which  the  drunken  loafer 
receives  from  his  wife. 

I  knew  a  little  dressmaker  once  who  had  as 
trifling  a  lout  for  a  husband  as  you  could  find  in 
a  day's  journey.  She  worked  her  fingers  to  the 
bone  for  him.  She  labored  twenty-five  hours  a 
day  for  him.  She  fed  him,  clothed  him,  coddled 
him,  and  shielded  him.  Every  once  in  a  while 
he  would  playfully  kick  her,  or  pinch  her  black 
and  blue.  Once  he  plastered  a  piece  of  pumpkin 
pie  which  did  not  suit  him  all  over  her  face.  But 
that  was  merely  his  way.  George  was  so  funny. 
And  then,  you  know,  he  wasn't  very  well.  He 
usually  had  some  disease  up  his  sleeve  in  case  he 
was  threatened  with  a  job.  And  how  she  loved 
him! 

In  primeval  days  men  did  no  work.  They 
hunted  and  rested.  Their  business  was  killing. 
The  women  tilled  the  fields  and  ground  the  corn. 
Alas,  those  good  old  times  are  no  more.  We  live 
in  a  decadent  era  when  men  are  presumed  to  labor 
and  women  to  play  bridge.  As  a  consequence  we 
are  not  loved  with  that  fierce  emotion  women  in 
early  ages  bestowed  upon  us. 

Therefore,  let  us  go  to  the  Bay  of  Shima  and  set 
up  our  hut,  lie  in  the  warm  sands,  and  watch  the 

222 


women  dive  for  pearls.  When  they  grow  tired 
of  that  we  can  make  them  go  up  to  the  house  and 
get  us  something  to  eat. 

Then,  brethren,  we  shall  be  loved. 


223 


THE   GENIUS   FOR  AFFECTION 

SOMEWHERE  I  have  read,  I  forget  where,  of 
wo  who  were  discussing  a  certain  woman,  who  was 
plain  of  face,  unattractive  of  figure,  the  reverse 
of  winning  in  manner,  and  who  undoubtedly  held 
firm  the  devotion  of  her  husband,  children,  and 
friends;  and  the  explanation  was  "she  had  the 
genius  for  affection." 

After  all  is  said  and  done  it  is  this  that  counts. 
Say  all  you  will  of  other  conditions  of  a  happy 
marriage,  fortunate  is  the  woman  with  this  gift. 

We  are  familiar  with  the  rules  for  connubial 
bliss;  there  must  be  similar  tastes;  one  must  marry 
in  one's  class;  there  must  be  mutual  esteem;  there 
must  be  "conciliation,  concession,  and  compro- 
mise" ;  the  wife  must  please  hubby's  stomach,  dress 
up  for  breakfast,  and  not  nag;  and  the  husband 
must  be  a  good  provider,  give  his  wife  an  allow- 
ance, and  be  sure  to  take  her  to  plenty  of  the- 
atres and  suppers,  lest  she  elope  with  the  violinist, 
after  the  manner  of  Clyde  Fitch's  characters. 

Yet  the  woman  with  "the  genius  for  affection" 
will  drive  a  four-horse  team  through  all  these 
words  of  wisdom  and  carry  off  her  husband  tri- 
umphantly. 

224 


She  will  hold  him,  though  she  be  beggar  maid 
and  he  be  King  Cophetua. 

She  will  hold  him  in  spite  of  all  the  head-wag- 
gings  of  the  worldly  wise. 

She  will  hold  him  against  all  the  enticings  of 
her  rivals  of  the  shadow. 

She  will  hold  him  against  a  proud  or  a  mischief- 
making  cohort  of  relatives. 

She  will  hold  him  against  the  bribes  of  a  rich 
uncle. 

She  will  hold  him  against  the  pull  of  business, 
booze,  and  baccarat. 

For  marriage  is  not  a  piece  of  common  work, 
like  gardening  or  banking;  it  is  more  like  a  poem, 
a  painting,  or  a  novel.  It  takes  genius. 

There  are  as  few  great  marriages  as  there  are 
great  masterpieces  of  art. 

There  are  not  many  women  who  are  Michael 
Angelos  or  Turners  in  love. 

But  as  in  the  plastic  arts,  so  in  marriage,  the 
art  of  arts :  though  but  here  and  there  one  is  great, 
yet  we  all  scramble  at  it  and  do  the  best  we  can. 

In  these  days  of  rampant  suffragettes  clamoring 
for  woman's  rights  it  is  well  not  to  forget  the  old 
original  right  of  woman- — the  right  to  be  loved. 

We  admire  the  woman  who  makes  speeches, 
leads  movements,  practises  law,  writes  stories,  and 
beats  man  at  his  own  game;  but  the  woman  who 
understands  the  art  of  getting  herself  loved 
loyally  is  still  the  great  woman. 


225 
/ 


POLITICS  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM 

WE  teach  children  a  great  many  things  in  the 
public  school ;  we  instruct  them  in  geography,  and 
history,  and  botany,  in  drawing,  and  classics,  and 
manners,  and  other  matters  useful  and  orna- 
mental. 

But  the  most  important  thing  for  young  Amer- 
icans to  know  is :  How  to  get  their  rights.  This 
they  don't  know.  They  grow  up  in  the  grossest 
ignorance  about  it. 

Consequently,  when  they  become  citizens  they 
are  herded  like  Texas  steers  by  a  class  of  sharpers 
who  know  the  herding  business. 

The  men  and  women  of  the  city  know  a  great 
deal  about  some  things,  about  things  that  are 
purely  individual.  They  can  make  money,  sell 
goods,  get  on  socially,  play  bridge,  and  manufac- 
ture pins  and  needles.  Individually  they  are  effi- 
cient, the  most  efficient  people  on  earth.  As  a 
whole  people  they  are  babes  and  sucklings.  You 
cannot  sell  any  one  of  them  a  gold  brick;  collec- 
tively, they  buy  gold  bricks  all  the  time. 

You  can  steal  their  civic  rights  from  them,  get 
railway,  gas,  and  water  franchises  from  them  for 
nothing,  and  have  them  pay  you  for  robbing  them, 

226 


and  all  they  do  is  to  stare  confusedly  like  a  Rube 
at  Coney  Island. 

You  can  make  them  walk  on  filthy  sidewalks 
and  ride  on  unswept  streets;  you  can  jam  them 
like  cattle  into  subway  cars  and  make  them  pay  a 
fare  for  hanging  to  a  strap  all  the  way  home  while 
the  company's  managers  are  getting  rich.  They 
submit  meekly,  lest  they  be  called  anarchists. 

You  can  give  them  poisoned  food  and  drink. 
They  haven't  the  slightest  notion  how  to  help 
themselves. 

You  can  hocus-pocus  them  with  the  shell  games 
of  tariff  and  big  business.  But  when  they  turn 
out  one  party  that  has  broken  its  promise,  all  they 
know  is  to  turn  in  another  that  will  do  the  same. 

You  can  drown  them  on  rotten  excursion  steam- 
ers, and  when  they  are  scattered  in  the  water  you 
can  throw  them  life  preservers  loaded  with  lead. 
You  can  wreck  them  on  imperfect  railways.  They 
may  splutter  a  bit,  but  nothing  is  done. 

You  can  give  them  wages  so  low  and  work 
them  hours  so  long  that  they  are  reduced  to  des- 
peration. You  can  house  them  in  filthy  slums, 
force  their  boys  into  crime  and  their  girls  into 
shame,  and  all  they  know  how  to  do  is  to  parade 
the  streets  like  a  lot  of  Indians,  whoop  and  throw 
bricks,  until  the  policemen  crack  them  over  the 
head  and  land  them  in  jail.  They  never  realize 
that  it  is  their  government,  their  city,  and  their 
law,  or  would  be  if  they  only  knew  how  to  organ- 
ize and  take  it. 

227 


When  they  go  to  war  you  can  give  them  canned 
goods  that  are  decayed. 

When  they  stay  at  home  you  can  tax  them  with 
a  high  head  and  outstretched  arm  to  get  money 
wherewith  to  pay  politicians  who  have  paving  con- 
tracts. 

All  the  while  they  are  helpless.  The  citizens 
of  the  United  States  are  one  huge  Lambs'  Club — 
officered  by  wolves. 

It  is  because  they  have  a  contempt  for  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  that  can  give  them  their  rights 
— politics. 

They  are  ignorant  of  the  art  of  democracy,  be- 
cause they  despise  it. 

They  stupidly  hand  the  business  of  government 
over  to  political  parties,  which  in  no  sense  are  or- 
ganizations of  the  people. 

Hence,  why  not  teach  the  children  how  to  form 
and  run  a  democracy,  how  to  manage  their  own 
communal  finances  and  improvements,  how  to  se- 
lect honest  mayors,  how  to  administer  charities, 
how  to  abate  nuisances,  how  to  keep  themselves 
from  being  swindled  by  the  officious  gentlemen 
who  so  kindly  volunteer  to  do  for  the  people  what 
the  people  ought  to  do  for  themselves. 

Every  child  should  graduate  from  the  public 
school  as  well  posted  and  well  drilled  in  politics 
as  the  West  Point  graduate  is  equipped  for  war. 

Politics  is  the  unending  war  of  democracy.  It 
needs  a  trained  citizen-soldiery.  It  is  high  time 
to  get  rid  of  the  janizaries. 

228 


THE  HIRED  GIRL 

THEY  had  a  celebration  the  other  day  in  a  home 
in  New  York,  I  see  by  the  papers,  and  I  wish  I 
had  been  invited,  and  probably  would  have  been 
if  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  family. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jacobson  gave  a  party  in  honor 
of  their  servant,  Helena  Schwartz,  because  she 
had  been  in  the  household  for  twenty  years.  I 
humbly  lay  my  laurel  wreath  at  Helena's  feet.  As 
the  office  boy  would  say,  "Me  for  her." 

It  is  about  time  something  was  said  for  the  hired 
girl.  She  has  as  much  to  do  with  the  peace  and 
content  of  the  family  as  any  other  member. 

In  one  respect  she  is  greatest  of  all;  for  her 
business  is  to  serve,  which  is  always  a  greater 
thing  to  do  than  to  rule. 

When  she  is  treated  with  the  respect  and  con- 
sideration due  to  a  human  being  she  is  usually 
faithful,  amiable,  and  efficient. 

We  have  never  had  any  servant  trouble,  with 
a  few  exceptions,  in  our  house.  On  the  contrary, 
we  have  grown  to  like  them,  and  they  us,  so  that 
when  the  necessary  partings  have  come  they  have 
been  attended  with  weepings  and  gloom,  as  if 
sisters  had  parted. 

229 


There  was  Ivanka,  the  Czech  girl,  who  longed 
to  stay,  but  was  called  away  by  the  lure  of  the 
stage.  She  felt  the  higher  call  to  warble  in  vaude- 
ville, and  I  hope  she  has  made  good. 

There  was  Edith,  the  Swede,  who  saved  up  so 
much  money  out  of  her  wages  that  she  had  to  go 
and  buy  a  farm  near  her  brother  in  Nebraska. 
And  Louise,  also  a  Swede,  who  married  the  laun- 
dryman. 

There  was  another  Louise  and  her  husband, 
Josef,  who  attended  to  our  wants  in  Paris,  and  at 
last  left  us  for  their  farm  in  the  Rhone  valley. 

And  there  is  Anna,  who  now  presides  over  the 
cook-stove.  She  is  a  colored  lady  from  North 
Carolina,  and  if  anybody  thinks  he  can  find  better 
baking-powder  biscuit  than  Anna  makes,  or  finer 
custard  pie,  or  more  delicious  roast  beef  or  boiled 
ham  than  Anna  can  prepare,  I  am  ready  to  meet 
such  person  now  or  any  time  and  prove  his  false- 
hood to  him  upon  his  body  with  weapons  of  his 
own  choice. 

When  our  crowns  are  passed  around  I  am  sure 
the  hired  girl  will  get  a  nice  shiny  one.  Who  can 
tell  her  numberless  sacrifices,  her  long  labors 
borne  cheerfully  for  a  little  appreciation?  How 
many  a  little  boy  has  loved  the  kitchen,  where  he 
has  found  his  most  sympathizing  friend?  How 
often  the  tired  mother  has  been  eased  and  tended 
by  the  loyal  ministries  that  no  wages  could  repay? 

And  let  us  thank  heaven  that  there  are  a  few 
girls  left  who  have  sense  enough  to  learn  how  to 

230 


take  care  of  a  house  and  cook  a  meal,  and  who 
cheerfully  occupy  a  place  in  some  family  where 
in  self-respect  they  can  work  not  too  hard  and 
save  a  bit  of  money,  rather  than  lead  a  dog's  life 
as  a  saleslady  or  shop  girl  on  $6  a  week. 

Helena  is  a  philosopher.  "It  all  depends  on 
the  girl  in  the  kitchen,"  she  said  in  a  newspaper 
interview.  "If  she  is  careful,  economical,  sympa- 
thetic, and  guards  the  good  name  and  character 
of  her  'family,'  and  she  knows  how  to  cook,  or  is 
willing  to  learn,  she  can  make  it  a  happy  home. 
If  the  contrary  is  true  it  will  not  be  happy,  no 
matter  how  hard  the  mistress  tries." 

And,  just  to  make  your  mouth  water,  I  will  here 
set  down  the  titles  of  the  various  good  things 
Helena  had  prepared  for  the  guests  at  the  party : 

"Home-made  noodle  soup,  roast  turkey  and 
chicken,  green  peas,  boiled  and  mashed  potatoes, 
cold-slaw,  tomato  and  lettuce  salad,  lemon  pies, 
sponge  cake,  pound  cake  with  twenty  candles  on 
its  frosted  top,  German  butter  cookies,  German 
sweet  loaf,  wines  and  liquors,  and  cigars  for  the 
men." 

How  long  since  you  have  read  a  paragraph  as 
interesting  as  that? 


231 


THE  CURSER 

A  CORRESPONDENT  writes  to  the  editor  of  the 
paper  in  which  my  lucubrations  appear  and  "al- 
lows" as  follows : 

"Of  all  the  drivel  I  have  seen  in  a  reputable  newspaper 
(outside  of  a  young  Ladies'  Journal),  I  can  never  recall 
having  read  such  an  egregious  combination  of  pettiness, 
false  reasoning,  and  maudlin  sentiment  as  is  displayed  in 
Dr.  Crane's  daily  articles.  I  could  understand  it  if  such 
gush  as  he  exudes  oozed  from  the  pen  of  some  half-edu- 
cated, sentimental  high  school  girl,  who  was  writing  a 
highfalutin  essay  for  her  valedictory;  but  I  imagine  that 
some — probably  a  majority — of  your  readers  have  in  their 
mental  make-up  a  little  more  knowledge  of  the  world,  a 
little  more  reasoning  power,  and  a  little  less  sentimentalism 
than  to  desire  instruction  or  to  be  unable  to  discern  the 
claptrap  of  it  all." 

This  is  only  part  of  his  letter.  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  omitting  some  other  remarks  on  account 
of  the  postal  laws. 

I  gather  that  the  writer  does  not  adore  me  with 
mad  infatuation,  nor  does  he  like  my  works.  But 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  get  from  his  letter  a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  satisfaction. 

232 


I  feel  greatness  coming  on.  I  feel  renown  creep- 
ing toward  me.  For  anybody  can  get  compli- 
ments, but  when  a  gentleman  froths  at  the  mouth 
and  manifests  a  desire  to  heave  a  brick  at  you, 
then  you  may  congratulate  yourself  that  you  have 
done  something  toward  stirring  things  up  a  bit. 

Although  I  cannot  aspire  to  the  "cool-headed 
zeal"  of  Colonel  Roosevelt  nor  the  severe  self- 
restraint  of  Mayor  Gaynor,  yet  as  a  rule  I  am  a 
mild  and  gentle  creature,  devoted  to  the  art  of 
making  a  living  by  smearing  ink  upon  white  paper. 
Yet  here  it  seems  that,  all  unwittingly,  I  have 
landed  a  wallop  on  the  solar  plexus  of  a  bystander. 
Honestly,  I  didn't  know  I  had  the  punch. 

Hereafter  my  readers  may  look  for  trouble.  I 
have  tasted  blood. 

It  all  goes  to  show  that,  no  matter  how  meek 
and  well  dressed  you  are,  somebody  is  going  to 
long  to  give  you  a  poke. 

You  may  not  make  friends,  for  that  is  a  long 
and  hard  business,  but  you  can  make  enemies  just 
by  walking  down  the  street. 

And,  personally,  I  love  a  sound  cursing.  When 
people  praise  you  they  may  not  mean  it,  but  when 
a  man  curses  you  it  is  rather  certain  that  he  is 
genuinely  sincere.  He  speaks  from  the  heart. 

Then  you  learn  a  lot  from  the  curser — many 
things  about  yourself,  and  sometimes  about  your 
ancestry,  that  you  did  not  know,  or  had  over- 
looked. 

Cheer  up,  therefore !    Strive  ever  onward  and 

233 


upward,  for  the  onwarder  and  upwarder  you  get 
the  more  haters  you  will  find  anxious  to  take  a 
shot  at  you. 

There  are  people  who  are  angry  even  to  look 
at  you.  They  say  all  manner  of  evil  things  they 
can  think  of  about  you,  and  then  some. 

Never  mind.  They  are  the  best  press  agents  in 
the  world. 

Besides,  cursing  is  a  habit  with  some  people.  I 
knew  a  man  who  was  so  given  to  expletives  that 
when  you  asked  him  where  he  lived  he  would  say, 
"Fifteen  hundred,  by  gosh,  and  seventy-three  In- 
diana avenue." 


234 


THE  BUTTON-BEFORE  GOWN  AND 
THE  BYRONIC  COLLAR 

THE  mysteries  of  feminine  apparel  I  in  no  wise 
pretend  to  understand  nor  presume  to  criticize. 
With  the  Psalmist  of  Israel  I  exclaim:  "Such 
things  are  too  wonderful  for  me;  they  are  high; 
I  cannot  attain  unto  them." 

The  intolerant  conservatism  of  male  attire  with 
its  smug  unreason  overawes  me  likewise.  Thor- 
oughly as  I  hate  it,  my  hate  is  but  a  snarling  im- 
potence, for  to  resist  is  to  become  ridiculous,  and 
one  can  enjoy  martyrdom  but  not  ridicule;  so  that 
if  the  penalty  were  prison  and  stripes  instead  of 
gibes  and  finger-pointings,  I  would  gladly  wear  a 
nice  white  tablecloth  and  only  that  these  hot  days. 

But  as  one  whose  office  it  is  to  animadvert  upon 
the  buds  and  sproutings  of  the  daily  news  I  wish 
here  to  indicate  two  minor  happenings  in  the  flux 
of  fashions  that  have  moved  joyfully  the  molecules 
of  my  pineal  gland,  otherwise  known  as  the 
epiphysis  or  conarium,  which  by  certain  ancient 
and  heathen  people  was  considered  to  be  the  seat 
of  the  soul. 

Firstly:  one  of  the  women  folks  connected  with 
the  household  where  I  lodge,  or,  to  be  more  ex- 

235 


plicit,  friend  wife  herself,  went  to  the  shops  the 
other  day  and  bought  a  new  dress,  a  blue  one,  and 
one  in  the  forefront  of  the  style,  one  of  those  con- 
traptions where  the  waist  line  has  dropped  toward 
the  knees,  and  there  is  a  gentle  alarm  in  the  mas- 
culine beholder  for  fear  the  whole  garment  will 
fall  off.  But  it  was  "some  gown,"  as  a  slangy 
friend  observed,  and  the  neighbor  women  were 
duly  envious  and  complimentary. 

The  point,  however,  I  wish  to  make  is  that  when 
she  proceeded  to  take  it  off  I  was  astounded  to 
discover  that  it  buttoned  up  before,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Old  Grimes,  his  old  gray  coat. 

"What!"  exclaimed  I,  "Marry  come  up  and 
'Sblood!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  is  now 
the  vogue  and  that  there  are  to  be  henceforth  no 
more  buttonings-up  behind?  If  so,  heaven  be 
praised  that  in  the  infinitude  of  style's  vagaries 
there  must  once  in  a  while  be  an  approach  to  rea- 
son and  comfort!" 

Having  her  mouth  full  of  pins  and  her  mind  full 
of  more  important  matters,  the  lady  paid  me  no 
heed.  Besides,  she  never  argues  about  clothes; 
she  commands,  prohibits,  indicates,  and  directs, 
but  does  not  argue,  which  programme  I  recom- 
mend to  all  wife-persons. 

I  have  but  small  space  left  for  my  second  item, 
which  pertains  to  man's  clothing.  It  is  the  appear- 
ance of  the  soft  shirt. 

May  God  send  thereto  also  the  soft  collar. 

For  why  any  animal,  even  a  homo  sapiens, 
236 


should  wear  about  his  neck  an  iron-hard  circlet, 
which  in  summer  time  becomes  moist  and  viscous 
inside,  and  irritates  and  poisons  the  neck-skin  and 
torments  the  soul,  that  I  cannot  understand. 

I  would  like  to  join  a  movement  to  restore  the 
Byronic  collar,  flowing,  open,  and  free.  How 
would  the  joy  of  the  male  half  of  the  human  race 
be  increased  thereby  1 


237 


FLUNKED 

NEVER  mind  I  That  you  have  flunked  in  school 
does  not  always  mean  either  that  you  are  lazy  or 
incompetent. 

On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  an  evidence  of  your 
ability. 

Schools  are  arranged  upon  the  principle  that 
there  are  so  many  cubic  feet  of  knowledge  which 
a  pupil  is  supposed  to  put  into  his  brain  in  order 
to  entitle  him  to  pass  from  one  grade  to  another. 

Also  upon  the  theory  that  you  cannot  know 
about  a  given  subject  unless  you  are  able  to  talk 
or  write  about  it;  in  other  words,  to  pass  a  written 
or  oral  examination. 

Both  of  these  propositions  are  unsound.  They 
rest  upon  a  theory  of  education  which  is  out  of 
date:  the  theory  that  education  consists  in  a  stu- 
dent measuring  up  to  a  prearranged  system. 

True  education  consists  in  the  development  of 
the  individual  child's  faculties,  whatever  they  may 
be. 

A  child  may  be  by  nature  incapable  of  master- 
ing mathematics,  as  Lord  Macaulay  was.  He  may 
have  a  natural  antipathy  to  Latin  and  Greek.  His 
Creator  may  have  made  him  with  an  inborn  taste 
for  music,  or  for  agriculture,  or  for  machinery, 

238 


and  with  possibilities  of  great  efficiency  in  these 
directions.  A  "system"  of  education  that  takes 
no  account  of  individual  trend  is  not  education  at 
all;  for  education  is  the  bringing  out  of  what  is  in 
a  person  and  not  stuffing  into  him  what  he  can 
never  digest  nor  assimilate.  The  idea  of  grading 
pupils  by  the  amount  of  text-book  stuff  they  can 
eat  mentally  is  medieval. 

The  examination  is  humbug.  No  examination 
is  any  test  of  what  one  understands  or  can  do. 

Writing  or  speaking  is  a  gift,  often  it  is  a  trick. 
The  pupil  who  can  tell  a  thing  most  glibly  is  by 
no  means  the  one  who  best  comprehends  it.  A 
man  may  be  able  to  manage  a  bank,  or  make  horse- 
shoes, or  speak  a  foreign  language,  or  command 
a  regiment,  and  be  utterly  awkward  and  incoherent 
when  he  attempts  to  write  about  how  he  does  it. 
One  of  the  best  writers  on  maritime  affairs  was 
only  a  third-rate  practical  seaman. 

The  trouble  with  the  school  system  is  that  there 
are  too  many  children  to  each  teacher.  Real  teach- 
ing being  impossible,  the  labor  saving  devices  of 
"grading"  and  "examinations"  are  resorted  to. 

Stingy  taxpayers,  ignorant  school  boards,  and 
narrow  pedagogues  combine  to  lay  the  blame  on 
the  child,  branding  him  as  "dull"  when  they  can- 
not squeeze  his  genius  into  their  artificial  world. 

They  may  call  you  stupid,  but  never  mind  1  So 
also  they  called  David  Livingstone,  Richard  Wag- 
ner, Charles  Dickens,  and  Stefansson,  the  ex- 
plorer. 

239 


PRACTISE  WHAT   YOU  PREACH 

ONE  of  the  most  mistaken  proverbs  I  have  ever 
heard  is  "Practise  what  you  preach."  I  would  not 
give  a  fig  for  a  man  that  could  not  preach  better 
than  he  can  practise. 

For  all  that  is  worth  a  man's  preaching  is  his 
ideals,  and  these,  unless  they  are  far  beyond  his 
practise,  are  of  no  value  at  all. 

Every  deed  is  a  compromise  between  our  vision 
and  our  tools,  between  the  imaginary  world  our 
souls  conceive  and  the  hard  and  stubborn  actuali- 
ties. 

"Tristan  and  Isolde"  is  wondrous  music,  but  it 
is  only  second  class  compared  to  the  harmonies 
that  fled  like  clouds  across  the  soul  of  its  com- 
poser. If  we  could  but  hear  the  music  Wagner 
felt,  tried  to  express,  but  missed,  it  would  break 
the  world's  heart  for  sweetness. 

In  one  respect  Michelangelo  is  the  greatest  of 
plastic  artists,  in  this,  that  in  his  work  is  seen  the 
struggle  of  the  imaging  soul  against  its  necessary 
limitations.  He  seems  always  striving  and  failing. 
Yet  in  his  falling  short  is  more  genius  than  in 
smaller  men's  smooth  perfection. 

240 


Our  dreams  are  the  best  part  of  us.  God  save 
us,  if  we  could  only  see  the  things  that  are !  It  is 
the  gift  of  seeing  things  as  they  might  be  that  lifts 
us  to  greatness. 

It  is  not  the  flesh  and  blood  woman,  it  is  the 
penumbral  woman,  the  woman  of  our  warmed  and 
creative  fancy,  that  is  the  "ever-womanly  that 
leads  us  on." 

It  is  the  dream  that  lifts  a  P.  D.  Armour  from 
being  an  ordinary  trader  to  being  the  greatest 
merchantman  of  earth.  It  is  the  dream  that  makes 
the  Woolworth  Building  a  towering  cathedral  of 
modern  business.  It  is  the  dream  that  summons 
the  mightiest  of  ships  to  shuttle  the  ocean.  It  is 
the  heated  dream  from  which  emerge  the  tele- 
phone, the  steam-engine,  and  the  airship. 

And  no  house,  machine,  book  or  song  of  man 
has  ever  equalled  his  dream.  He  goes  on  preach- 
ing perfection  to  himself  and  to  his  brothers,  be- 
cause he  is  divine.  He  goes  on  practising  imper- 
fection because  he  is  human. 

In  the  acorn  is  the  dream  of  an  oak,  and  in  the 
human  race  is  the  dream  of  Kingdom  Come,  the 
Golden  Year,  of  justice,  and  co-operation.  And 
as  the  oak  grows  dream-guided,  so  mankind  grows, 
slowly,  but  with  what  unspeakable  majesty!  like 
the  great  tree  Ygdrasil,  whose  roots  are  in  the 
past,  but  whose  leaves  and  golden  fruit  are  in  the 
future.  "Say  that  we  dream,"  writes  Alfred 
Noyes, 

241 


Our  dreams  have  woven 

Truths  that  out- face  the  burning  sun ; 
The  lightnings,  that  we  dreamed,  have  cloven 

Time,  space,  and  linked  all  lands  in  one ! 
Year  after  year,  age  after  age 

Has  handed  down  thro'  fool  and  child, 
For  earth's  divinest  heritage, 

The  dreams  whereon  old  wisdom  smiled* 


242 


NUDE  OR  UNDRESSED? 

QUITE  a  little  dust  has  been  kicked  up  over  the 
question  whether  Paul  Chabas's  picture,  "Sep- 
tember Morn,"  is  obscene  or  not.  It  presents  to 
us  a  young  girl  standing  in  the  water,  with  no  cloth- 
ing except  the  morning  haze. 

A.  Comstock  et  al.  have  denounced  the  picture 
as  indecent.  In  this  view  the  honorable  Bath 
House  John  of  Chicago  coincides. 

Artists  and  other  emancipated  souls  are  equally 
emphatic  in  their  declaration  that  whoever  objects 
to  seeing  the  girl  in  the  altogether  is  a  prude  and 
all  sorts  of  other  undesirable  things. 

It  may  set  both  parties  right  to  get  the  matter 
clearly  in  mind.  All  quarrels  arise  from  a  failure 
to  agree  first  on  definitions.  It  is  a  case  of  the  two 
knights  fighting  over  the  color  of  a  shield  red  on 
one  side  and  blue  on  the  other. 

And  in  the  particular  subject  at  issue  it  all  de- 
pends upon  whether  the  young  female  is  nude  or 
undressed. 

A  nude  person  is  one  who  goes  unclothed  from 
preference  and  only  wears  garments  for  warmth's 
sake.  An  undressed  person  is  one  who  always 
wears  clothes,  loves  them,  and  expresses  herself 

243 


or  himself  by  them,  and  who  is  surprised  garment- 
less. 

The  Venus  de  Milo  in  the  Louvre  is  nude.  Lady 
Godiva  as  she  rode  the  streets  of  Coventry  was 
all  undressed.  The  Greeks  were  nude ;  Americans 
in  a  Turkish  bath  are  naked. 

Modern  civilized  conventional  human  beings 
can  never  be  nude,  because  clothes  are  a  part  of 
their  religion.  What  they  call  morality  has  noth- 
ing, usually,  to  do  with  any  ethical  force  or  virtue 
of  self-expression,  but  is  merely  conformity  to  cus- 
tom. Such  people  can  never  be  nude;  when  they 
take  off  their  clothes  they  are  naked — and  naughty. 

It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  used  to  be.  In  a  preceding 
generation  nothing  had  legs  but  pianos  and  tables ; 
ladies  had  limbs;  and  the  whole  region  from  the 
collar  to  the  waist-lines  was  known  as  the  stom- 
ach, for  the  simple  old  English  term  belly  was  for 
some  inscrutable  reason  believed  to  be  indelicate. 

There  is  even  a  legend  of  a  young  preacher  who 
announced  to  his  flock  that  he  was  about  to  dis- 
course upon  "Jonah,  who,  as  you  all  know,  spent 
three  days  in  the  whale's — um — hm — that  is  to 
say,  three  days  in  the  whale's — hm — society." 

The  painting  by  Chabas  is  not  of  something 
naked,  the  girl  is  not  undressed.  She  never  had 
any  clothes  on  in  her  life.  She  is  not  thinking 
clothes.  She  has  stepped  dryad-like  out  of  the 
woods  where  she  lives  with  other  bodied-fancies, 
with  thought-beings  that  never  wore  anything  but 
beauty. 

244 


She  is  nude.  And  she  is  as  pure  as  the  deity- 
fingers  that  made  bodies,  and  purer  than  the  hu- 
man fingers  that  fix  and  button  up  clothes. 

She  never  wore  anything,  never  will  wear  any- 
thing. If  she  put  anything  on  she  would  be  inde- 
cent. 

So  it's  all  as  you  take  it.  Most  of  us  never 
"come  to  ourselves"  except  by  undressing.  As 
soon  as  we  are  born  the  layette  is  ready,  all  our 
lives  we  wear  uniforms,  when  we  lie  in  our  cof- 
fins we  are  still  dressed  up,  and  when  we  get  to 
heaven  and  fly  around  with  the  angels  we  shall  all 
have  on  beautiful  white  nightgowns. 

So  let  us  be  thankful  that  there  remains  one 
realm  where  the  nude  human  form,  the  most 
beautiful  thing  God  ever  made,  can  still  walk  in 
innocence  and  free  from  all  the  stifling  pseudo- 
moralities  clothes  imply — the  realm  of  art. 

When  Mile.  Ada  Villany  was  fined  two  hundred 
francs  for  dancing  nude  upon  the  stage  at  Paris, 
her  defense  was  that  when  she  removed  her  cloth- 
ing it  was  to  express  her  soul.  She  was  mistaken. 
The  body  does  not  express  the  soul  unless  it  has 
always  been  unclothed.  It  is  not  the  absence  of 
clothing  that  is  indecent ;  it  is  the  removal  of  cloth- 
ing. 


245 


SWEET  ALICE 

"O  don't  you  remember  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt, 
Sweet  Alice,  so  good  and  so  true?" 

THERE  is  not  much  being  said  about  her  nowa- 
days. Naturally  she  never  gets  into  the  newspa- 
pers ;  she  is  not  that  kind.  And  the  novels  of  the 
day  seem  to  pass  her  by  for  more  thrilling  types, 
although  once  she  was  quite  the  vogue.  But  for 
all  that  she  is  still  doing  business  at  the  old  stand. 

I  refer  to  the  simple,  loyal,  lovable  girl  who 
loves  just  one  boy,  the  one  who  is  to  be  her  hus- 
band, the  one  into  whose  career  all  her  life  is  to 
be  gladly  poured. 

I  would  not  dare  these  days  to  say  she  is  the 
highest  kind  of  woman.  She  couldn't  be  a  suffra- 
gette nor  a  leader  of  any  "movement." 

She  is  just  girl.  When  she  grows  up  she  is  just 
woman.  She  is  not  famous  nor  in  anywise  con- 
spicuous. 

But  she  is  the  kind  men  go  crazy  over ;  the  kind 
to  live  for  and  die  for. 

And  while  the  great  and  grand  woman-leaders 
of  our  time  are  being  garlanded  and  feted  I  may 
be  allowed  perhaps  to  hand  this  one  little  flower 
of  appreciation  to  Sweet  Alice. 

246 


Yes,  I  know  it  is  sentimental;  it  is  gush.  But 
the  heart  that  won't  gush  once  in  a  while  is  pretty 
dry.  I  don't  covet  it. 

The  loyal  devotion  of  one  man  to  one  woman 
is  still  the  thing  that  to-day  excites  the  most  uni- 
versal admiration. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  loves;  but  the  love  that 
is  stuck  to  is  the  best. 

Nothing  in  McKinley's  career  so  popularized 
him  as  his  tender  and  constant  attention  to  his 
invalid  wife. 

Before  Pickett  led  his  braves  to  that  fatal 
charge  at  Gettysburg  he  wrote  to  his  sweetheart, 
and  in  telling  her  how  he  loved  her  alone  he  found 
something  that  nerved  him  to  courage. 

It  may  not  be  much  to  inspire  and  ennoble  a 
man,  to  make  him  unafraid  to  tell  and  to  live  the 
truth,  to  keep  him  clean,  "without  fear  and  with- 
out reproach,"  but  that  is  what  the  Sweet  Alice 
girl  can  do. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  army  of  lovers  in  the 
world.  Just  a  week  or  so  ago  the  college  towns 
were  buzzing  full,  but  no  incidents  of  commence- 
ment time  meant  more  than  those  walks  where 
they  went  a-twozing,  hand  in  hand  in  the  summer 
night,  and  talked  of  how  passing  wonderful  it  was 
that  they  should  have  found  each  other  and  that 
love  came.  If  there's  any  more  important  busi- 
ness than  making  love  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  innumerable  little  house- 
holds where  the  young  husband  gloats  over  Sweet 

247 


Alice  and  her  babies  and  still  tells  her  fond  and 
foolish  nothings  that  warm  her  heart. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  pairs  that  have  held  loyally 
together  through  sun  and  storm,  of  the  two  that 
are  grandparents  now,  but  still  find  no  hours  so 
full  of  content  as  those  they  spend  together  and 
apart  from  the  world. 

This  love  is  the  best;  the  love  that  is  weathered 
and  beaten;  that  has  been  assailed  by  every  out- 
ward enemy  and  all  inward  weaknesses,  but  still 
holds  and  glows ;  the  love  that  death  itself  cannot 
slay,  the  love  that  lives  on  yonder  in  the  unknown, 
as  sure  and  eternal  as  the  God  who  gave  it,  who 
wrought  it,  this  miracle  of  miracles. 


248 


DIVORCE 

ONE  of  the  queerest  things  Alice  might  see  if 
she  came  to  this  Wonderland  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury would  be  the  institution  known  as  the  divorce. 

A  man  and  woman  cannot  get  married  unless 
they  are  agreed.  But  it  is  exactly  when  they  agree 
together  to  separate  that  the  law  refuses  to  grant 
them  a  divorce. 

The  consequence  is  that  they  usually  connive  at 
making  their  case  appear  as  if  one  party  were  con- 
tending to  be  free  and  the  other  party  to  remain 
tied.  This  legal  vaudeville  seems  an  odd  way  of 
accomplishing  a  very  desirable  end,  the  disjoin- 
ing of  two  who  are  aweary  of  each  other. 

Provided  equitable  arrangements  can  be  made 
to  protect  the  interests  of  all  parties,  as  far  as 
may  be  possible,  and  provided  especially  that  the 
welfare  of  the  children  be  safeguarded,  why  in 
the  world  cannot  two  people  who  are  spoiling 
each  other's  lives  be  allowed  to  go  their  separate 
ways  in  peace? 

I  believe  wholly  in  monogamy  and  that  "the 
supreme  affection  between  two"  is  the  ideal  of 
sex  relationship;  but  I  think  altogether  too  much 
of  marriage  to  believe  in  continuing  a  tie  that  has 

249 


become  a  destructive,  irritating,  and  corroding 
condition. 

They  are  telling  the  story  now  in  Paris  of  a  cer- 
tain countess  who  met  a  lawyer,  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  upon  the  street  one  day.  After  chat- 
ting a  moment  he  inquired  where  she  was  now 
living. 

"Why,  at  home,  of  course  I" 

"Since  your  divorce?" 

"Divorce?    What  do  you  mean?" 

The  counsellor  then  told  her  that  he  had  read 
of  the  divorce  proceedings  her  husband  had  insti- 
tuted against  her,  and  advised  her  to  look  into  the 
matter. 

She  was  astounded.  Her  home  life  had  been 
ideal,  her  husband  admirable.  She  hastened  to 
her  house,  only  to  find  her  husband  had  gone. 
She  then  learned  that  he  had  actually  divorced  her 
without  her  knowing  it,  by  having  her  sign  papers 
which,  foolishly,  she  never  read,  as  he  explained 
that  they  were  mere  legal  technicalities  connected 
with  her  money,  of  which  he  had  charge. 

Shortly  afterward  he  married  a  wealthy  widow. 

This  kind  of  scoundrelism  can  get  by  the  law, 
but  two  honest  people  who  want  to  part  legally 
and  without  chicane  are  reprimanded  for  collusion 
and  sent  back  to  annoy  each  other. 

Since  divorces  are  allowed,  why  not  have  them 
granted  in  a  decent,  deliberate,  honorable  way,  in- 
stead of  by  an  unworthy  legal  comedy? 

And  why  is  not  mutual  consent  about  the  best 
250 


reason  in  the  world  for  divorce,  without  dragging 
in  a  lot  of  scandal  to  besmirch  all  persons  con- 
cerned in  order  to  establish  the  sacred  inviolabil- 
ity of  marriage? 

Why  must  divorce,  if  it  be  necessary  and  legal, 
be  a  dirty  war  to  the  knife? 

Certain  moralists  these  days  are  advocating  the 
marriage  of  reason,  of  eugenics,  and  intelligence. 
Perhaps  that  is  the  better  way;  but  if  one  may 
marry  without  love,  why  may  not  one  be  divorced 
without  hate? 


251 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

THE  man  of  the  world  is  the  noxious  triumph 
of  the  disease  called  civilization. 

Evolution  wears  him  as  a  little  poison  flower 
in  its  buttonhole. 

He  is  exquisite  in  his  dress  and  in  his  food.  Is 
not  the  meat  more  than  life,  and  raiment  than  the 
body? 

He  is  so  completely  the  creature  of  fashion  that 
he  is  the  creator  of  fashion. 

He  is  utterly  sophisticated.  He  is  considered 
interesting  because  nothing  any  more  interests  him. 

The  two  things  that  make  life  worth  living  are 
the  two  things  he  considers  most  ridiculous — won- 
der and  enthusiasm. 

He  is  proud  of  his  ignorance  of  all  that  is  use- 
ful and  of  his  familiarity  with  all  that  is  useless. 

He  knows  the  flavors  and  smells  of  expensive 
cigars  and  the  bouquets  of  wines,  but  would  con- 
sider it  a  disgrace  to  know  a  hickory  tree  from 
an  elm,  and  a  calamity  to  know  how  to  run  a  loco- 
motive. 

To  him  true  and  loyal  love  is  a  joke,  and  all  vir- 
tue hypocrisy. 

Love,  which  alone  is  the  fountain  of  youth,  is 
252 


dried  up  in  him.  The  bats  and  lizards  of  lust 
inhabit  his  heart. 

His  heart  is  a  thousand  years  old. 

He  is  farthest  removed  from  that  childishness 
which  makes  sound  souls,  and  his  keenest  pleas- 
ures are  Mephistophelian. 

His  religion  is  a  witty  pessimism. 

The  most  enjoyable  things  to  him  are  subtle 
sins. 

He  attracts  women  as  a  serpent  lures  birds,  by 
the  fascination  which  anything  utterly  cruel  pos- 
sesses. 

He  has  a  certain  tranquillity  of  soul,  for  he  is 
never  worried  by  temptation;  he  always  yields. 

He  is  a  weasel  before  whose  assurance  lions 
tremble. 

Anything  important  he  studiously  neglects,  and 
is  serious  only  in  trifles. 

If  he  has  a  wife  she  detests  him;  if  he  has  a 
mistress  she  fears  him;  if  he  has  children  they 
hate  him;  if  he  has  a  mother  she  is  ashamed  of 
him. 

He  moves  in  the  narrowest  of  provincial  worlds, 
the  smart  set. 

He  lives  in  terrible  isolation,  for  where  there  is 
no  loyalty  there  are  no  friends. 

He  has  no  inseparable  companion  but  himself, 
and  himself  he  hates. 

When  he  dies  he  will  be  no  different  from  when 
he  is  alive ;  he  will  be  dirt  then  as  now.  The  only 

253 


change  will  be  that  he  will  cease  to  wear  a  polished 
shirt. 

His  epitaph  shall  be  the  words  of  Margarete : 

"Es  steht  ihm  an  der  Stirn  geschrieben, 
Dass  er  nicht  mag  eine  Seele  lieben." 

(It  stands  written  upon  his  brow 
That  he  could  not  love  a  human  soul.) 


254 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  GROWING  OLD 

SENSIBLE  people  when  they  grow  old  find  a 
great  many  compensations.  Crossing  the  line  of 
fifty,  one  moves  up  a  little  closer  to  the  heart  of 
the  world.  Youth  is  a  good  deal  of  a  stranger 
and  a  pilgrim  in  the  universe.  The  ageing  man 
discovers  a  realness  and  a  hominess  in  men  and 
things. 

^Youth  has  no  sense  of  proportion.  He  must 
hasten.  Reforms  cry  out.  Up  and  at  them !  He 
tears  his  shirt.  Then  when  he  gets  old  he  begins 
to  say,  with  Emerson,  "Why  so  hot,  little  man?" 
The  youth's  optimism  is  a  kind  of  enlarged  egor 
tism;  the  optimism  of  old  age  is  an  appreciation 
of  the  friendliness  of  nature. 

Young  men  are  dazzled  by  institutions,  imposed 
upon  by  organizations,  overawed  by  the  pre- 
sumptuous authority  of  the  past.  Old  men  come 
to  value  personality  more  than  these  things. 
There  is  nothing  worth  while  but  to  express  one's 
self;  it  takes  years  of  experience  to  realize  that. 

Old  age  learns  how  to  "come  down"  without 
"giving  up,"  to  use  the  words  of  "The  Country 
Parson."  The  old  man  quietly  adjusts  himself 
to  the  stubborn  inevitable.  Young  people  waste 
infinite  effort  in  fuming  and  useless  strenuousness. 

255 


To  youth  success  seems  a  matter  of  laboring  hard 
at  the  oar;  to  the  wise  old  man  it  is  a  matter  of 
setting  one's  sails.  The  winds  of  heaven,  if  we 
get  at  the  proper  angle  to  them,  will  do  more  than 
all  our  muscle. 

The  conscience  of  youth  is  usually  morbid. 
Many  of  his  reddest  sins  and  most  shining  virtues 
tone  down  with  years.  He  learns  tolerance.  He 
believes  less  and  less  in  prohibitions  and  punish- 
ments and  more  and  more  in  the  creative  virtues 
such  as  love,  courage,  and  lending  a  hand. 

To  a  normal  old  age  comes  a  consciousness 
of  the  real  joy  of  living,  of  the  little  things  that 
compose  life.  The  youngster  is  so  whirled  in  high 
enthusiasm  that  he  forgets  or  has  no  time  to  see 
how  good  life  is,  mere  existence.  Old  people 
come  back  to  eating,  sleeping,  walking,  breathing, 
and  all  the  common  ingredients  of  the  day,  not 
sensually,  but  with  spiritual  gratefulness. 

Young  men  are  eager  for  knowledge,  greedy 
for  the  equipment  of  facts,  of  skill,  and  of  effi- 
ciency. Old  men  have  seen  the  weakness  of  these; 
they  prefer  wisdom  and  philosophy;  they  prefer 
the  expert  soul  to  the  expert  hand  and  mind. 

Love  means  more  to  old  people  than  to  young. 
To  youth  it  is  an  adventure,  to  age  it  is  the  color 
of  existence.  To  young  persons  it  is  a  dangerous 
madness,  to  the  old  it  is  a  conserving,  universal, 
ever-present  force.  The  unwrecked  personality 
ought  to  be  and  usually  is  happier  after  fifty  than 
before. 

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